The Angel
by BeaBae
Summary: After an accident leaves his body in tatters, Arthur Kirkland is remade by experimental surgery into the greatest weapon the intergalactic empire has against the rebels. Space Dystopia AU. Warnings include: violence, mass-slaughter, cyborgs, regulated prostitution, some PTSD, attempted suicide, guilt. EngCan, brotherly!FrUK, FrUS.
1. The Phoenix - Fall Out Boy

**Warnings for this chapter:** **violence, war, dystopias, mass-slaughter (non graphic) , body modification ala cyborgs, mentions of regulated prostitution, vague medical stuff, some PTSD and dytopiaaaaaas in SPACE!  
**  
000

_The 12__th__ And Smallest Moon of Jupiter 2— Derse._

The seniors of Dominus Academia enjoyed many privileges, such as godlike respect from the lower rungs, private dormitory rooms, a lack of curfew and—a less often invoked privilege—permission to skip their final exams if and only if the Academy's tutors and professors believed the senior in question was skilled enough that an exam would be nothing more than a formality. Two to three seniors in any given class of three hundred would be except from, perhaps, one exam each. It was not uncommon for an entire graduating class to forget about the exam-skipping privilege, simply because the odds were so against their favor.

The class of 5074, however, skipped eight final exams their graduating year.

One was Li Wang from Cherry 35, who skipped his final Chemical Weaponry exam. Another skipped Recovery & Reconnaissance, though it wasn't particularly surprising, as Berwald Oxenstierna was from a particularly cold and dark planet, Scandan, whose thick atmosphere allowed for easy terraforming but was left perpetually frosty due to its distance from a star. All residents of Scandan were trained in basic rescue procedures from a young age.

Six exams were skipped by two students, a nearly unheard of event in Academy history. Both of them skipped their Focus exams, which were traditionally taken a month before the official graduation ceremony.

Francis Bonnefoy of G. Versailles XIV, (_Louie_, as residents called it, the end result of a long and complicated history of typos and mispronunciations of official reports) skipped his exams in Troop Management and Care, Empire History and Strategy.

Arthur E. Kirkland—the youngest of the infamous Kirkland family, some of the first colonizers of Brittannic, the Four-Stack Planet, the planet most famous for the utilization of a Stacks System—skipped Chemical Weaponry, Espionage, and Strategy.

Bonnefoy and Kirkland confronted each other in the dorm room halls mere minutes after the electronic mail announcing their unprecedented exceptions.

"Sourcils," Bonnefoy said, printed electronic mail in his hand, his arms crossed over his chest. He was, as usual, out of uniform and more gorgeous for it.

"Frog," said Kirkland. His red uniform was buttoned to the top and his pants had recently been ironed. He too held a printed electronic mail crumpled in his fist.

"I have some news you'll be extremely interested in," said Bonnefoy, waving his paper.

"Funny. I do too," said Kirkland, a wicked grin on his face.

The nearby students took a few steps away, unsure if the tension mounting in the air between the two would erupt into one of the rare but violent brawls which were not uncommon among stressed seniors. With the end of their nine year schooling and a lifetime of military service ahead of them, tempers ran high and patience ran low. A handful of fights each year was not unexpected, and the medical staff and guards guaranteed that no one ever walked away with much more than a scratch. The Academy was one of the safest places in the galaxy, aside from the capital of the capital planet, Pompeii, Rome, Italia.

In the same movement, both Kirkland and Bonnefoy thrust their printed notes into each other's faces, shouting for the other to run off cowering in the face of accomplishment. A moment passed between them.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Kirkland.

"Couilles," said Bonnefoy.

"All right, we can make this work. We can still make this work," said Kirkland. "Whoever gets the highest total scores on the rest of the exams wins definitively, including the exams the other's been excepted from. How's that sound?"

Bonnefoy nodded. "Fair. And if you help me with the chemical weaponry, I'll help you with history."

"Deal. And booze it up out of spite during the strategy exam? Bluno's Bar?"

"You have never had a better plan in your life."

000

The drinking at Bluno's Bar—just a short bullet rain ride away—like many other things between Bonnefoy and Kirkland, became a competition. Unlike most of their contests, Francis Bonnefoy was an uncontested winner. Arthur Kirkland simply could not hold his alcohol.

They stumbled out of the bar at 23:39:07, arms wrapped around each other and grinning from ear to ear. They stumbled from side to side, each doing their best to steady the other until they finally made it to the bullet train station at 23:44:49. It took a moment for them to fumblingly insert their ID cards into the access doors to the very full loading dock.

Trains on the Earth That Was, Francis could tell you from his studies in Empire History, were loud and rancorous, noisy polluting beasts which shot sparks and crashed frequently. They were no longer on the Earth That Was, however, but on Derse, the small terraformed moon of Jupiter 2. Like all other planets within the Empire, everything was regulated and safe, including the trains, which were separated from the loading dock by force fields at all times while the trains were in motion.

There were no such things as glitches. It was entirely planned that all trains throughout the empire docked at the exact same time, allowing the force fields to work on an inexpensive timer rather than a sensor. Fifteen years prior, when the Academy's star was a few degrees different, the docking time had been three minutes and seven seconds earlier. Due to a minor circuitry situation, each train station on Derse had to manually reset the timers on the force field. Therefore, it was the error of a then-newly trained station mechanic, who had gone on to become head mechanic, that the timers of the particular line going from Battery Square to Dominus Acadamia's front entrance had only been reset by three minutes and two seconds.

For five seconds, three minutes before the train's arrival, the force field lowered entirely, and Francis and Arthur—leaning heavily against it to support their drunken bodies, as all the benches were filled—fell onto the track.

It took them a few moments to orient themselves, wondering why they were suddenly on their backs and why their rear ends hurt so badly.

A few moments later, someone nearby shouted, "Are the force fields down?"

By the time Francis had stumbled back onto his feet and found himself face-against the force field, his heart thumping and his stomach beginning to churn. It was 23:48:30, and the force fields were not down _not down NOT DOWN_.

It was remarkable how quickly he sobered. He beat his fist against the force field. People on the dock began to scream. The clock showing how long it would be until the next train was ticking down rapidly. Arthur was still in the middle of the track, clutching his rear and saying, "What's all the ruckus?"

A station worker knelt against the force field next to Francis. "Stay as close to the force field and away from the track as you possibly can. We're working as quickly as we can to get you out. Please remain calm. Proper authorities have already been called. Please, remain calm."

Francis grabbed Arthur's wrist and tugged him towards the edge of the track, pressing their backs against the now-very-present force field and trying to steady his breathing as Arthur refused to stand straight, demanding in his drunken state to know what was going on. Arthur never could hold his alcohol or sober up nicely, Francis reflected as he stared at the clock across from them, feeling the force field against his back. Staring at the clock in front of them.

00:00:31…

00:00:30…

00:00:29…

00:00:28…

00:00:27…

000

"Caer Beilschmidt," said the aide. Germania Beilschmidt, head of Dominus Acadamia, looked up from his desk, which was covered in perfectly aligned pens, pencils and papers. His handwriting was flawless cursive. His long blond hair was braided into perfectly symmetrical knots, which were part of old traditions at his home planet.

"Speak," said Germania Beilschmidt. "I don't have all day."

"There's been an incident, sir. Two of the students, Kirkland and the elder Bonnefoy—they've been in an accident. They're currently in medical care. Bonnefoy will survive, but Kirkland has died twice thus far. They don't believe his body can support him anymore."

"Is my son present?"

"He is, Sir," the aide said.

"I want live feed from the operating room," said Germania Beilschmidt. He set down his pen and sat back in his chair, looking to the screen on the side of the room. With a few frantic clicks, an image appeared on the monitor.

Ludwig Beilschmidt was covered from head to toe in his scrubs. Only his piercing blue eyes were uncovered. He was proud of his twenty-twenty vision and the dexterity of his large hands. He didn't so much as glance at the screen which had lit up in front of him with his father's image, concentrating on deftly maneuvering the needle and thread in his hands, even as he said, "Father. This is unexpected."

"Tell me the damage." Germania Beilschmidt said.

"His chest is badly injured. Many of his internal organs are ruptured. His head is relatively intact, and so we've set up a life support system to keep his brain functioning. For the time being, he is alive in that manner, but unconscious and unable to communicate or be of any use. Our last two attempts to reconnect the brain to the rest of his body have been unsuccessful. We've had to revive him twice. Either he'll remain comatose as a head in a jar or he'll die, Sir," Ludwig said.

"His family will be most upset."

"We've done all we can think of, Sir."

Germania Beilschmidt did not sigh as much as left out a huff of disappointed air. Ludwig flinched all the same. "The military will be upset as well. It's a shame to lose someone so useful."

"A useful mind, anyway," one of the surgeons who was not Ludwig said, though Ludwig turned to glare at them. Their body was offscreen, and Germania Beilschmidt did not recognize the voice as any surgeon or student he was familiar with. "If he were just a body, he would be replicable."

Where Germania heard, _if only we'd lost what was already cannon fodder for the rebellion_, Ludwig appeared to have heard something else. On the monitor, his head jerked upward, his blue eyes wide.

"Father," said Ludwig. "If I can preserve Kirkland's life, may I be exempt from my final exams?"

000

The doctors stabilized Kirkland's life support first, hooking up his brain to artificial lungs and an artificial heart, adding bits and taking them away as necessary until brainwave function was stable, if incomprehensible. The second thing the doctors did was set a time limit.

Three days, they decided. Three days on that life support system would be all Kirkland was guaranteed. Afterwards, the likelihood of permanent brain damage or a rejection of the new body would be too high to bother.

They took the remains of Kirkland's body—most of a pair of legs and arms, part of a spine, some ligaments, some marrow and bone shards—and they called in the Bio and Engineer students.

They welded a skeleton out of adamite and threaded the top of the spinal cord with wires. They wove steel into Kirkland's limbs. They soaked his body in electronics and plastic. They realigned his eyeballs and slid links into his skull, making the attachment of the life support system to the reinforced chest cavity of half-blood-half-iron a smooth fit. They put six ports in his back, three round holes in a vertical line, two inches in diameter each sinking into his body where each shoulder blade would be. Then—when someone pointed out the potential difficulties of surviving with such an appearance—the surgeons spent six hours grafting pale skin over the exposed metal.

And then they turned him on.

000

For Ludwig, it was like watching the birth of a masterpiece.

His three Focuses were in Management, Medicine and Engineering. He was near the top of his class in all three, and watching the product of all his work, the fruits of his labors, the culmination of cooperation between all three of his Focuses—

He could hardly breathe as they hooked Kirkland up to the computer. True, they were not actually doing much more than running several basic simulations and MRIs through the new technology to ensure that his brain was still active in its comatose state and that noninvasive brain scans would be possible without disrupting his wiring.

The computer they had been granted permission to use was not only the largest but one of the newest in the medical facility, with an extraordinary amount of processing power and various applications. It was also the only computer they were granted access to which had enough ports to effectively hook Kirkland in.

The cords hooked into Kirkland's back ports smoothly. Three to the left ports, three to the right. They were large cords, and so the fit was tight, but they managed by leaning Kirkland against one of the main processors and having an intern hold him steady. Feliciano Vargas—one of the other Medical Focuses, and one of the two grandsons of Their Great Lord Romulus, Body of the Empire—had commented that they looked like angel wings. Ludwig did not see what he meant, but nodded regardless. He was not about to disagree with Their Great Lord Romulus' beloved grandson on such a trivial matter.

He was also too busy trying very hard to not wring his hands. The Engineering Focus students were beginning to give him thumbs-up signs, and waving to the Medical Focus students who were in charge of operating the computers, as the computers were property of the Medical department.

The final checks were cleared. It had been three days. The computer was turned on and humming, Kirkland was hooked in and held in place properly. It was now or never. He would live or he would die.

(Ludwig wished he'd had more time to plan.)

The program to awaken Kirkland's body and bring him out of his comatose state was launched. The intern holding Kirkland shuddered at the static residue from the wild electric pulse. There was a beeping, and then a buzz, and Kirkland's eyes slid open.

His eyelids fluttered, more accurately. Ludwig prided himself on being accurate. Kirkland's eyelids were fluttering and his fingers were twitching. The screen showing his brainwaves indicated a large frequency increase. The heart monitor beat steadily at 84 bpm.

Ludwig licked his lips. "Status," he said.

"Heart rate 84 bpm, blood pressure 120 over 80, brain wave frequency is 8 Hz. Body temperature is stable at 94.7, hydration…"

Ludwig nodded along to the report. "Run the first scan."

The room stood, silently observing the technician typing away at one of the massive keyboards.

"Scan completed. There doesn't seem to be any brain damage and we have an extremely clear picture. His information processing centers are very active while his emotional, remembrance and stimuli centers are relatively dormant, as though in a drowsy or sleepy state."

Ludwig frowned.

"Continue running the planned tests."

The technician nodded, and for the next two hours they stood (until Feliciano Vargas complained of his legs hurting, and so chairs were promptly fetched) and watched the scans be completed, until very suddenly the technician said, "He's responded."

"What?" said another.

"Kirkland. He responded through the computer to our last scan. The cues fed directly into his brain. He's responding to them and it's translating into the computer."

Ludwig quickly stood from his chair and hurried to the side of the technician. "Run another scan, similar to this one. Orders."

The technician did. Kirkland, honest to the story, responded.

It was in binary.

Ludwig continued watching the screen even as he pointed to one of the fifteen year old interns standing around the edges of the room. "You. Fetch Kiku Honda from Coding and Ciphers. His dorm is Claudius B102. I want him here in no less than ten minutes."

The intern scampered off. Seven minutes later, Kiku Honda hurried in, struggling to walk at the speed of a sprint.

"You asked for me Beilschmidt-san?" Honda said. He readjusted his red uniform and stared at the floor rather than Ludwig's face. Honda had a large collection of photos of all the senior class in various stages of nudity, which had been confiscated by Ludwig (who was also a proud student leader) the year before. They hadn't ever spoken before, and had yet to speak much since, but Honda was the best in their class with computers and coding, and Ludwig was not the sort to mistake moral misconduct with inefficiency.

"I need you to serve as a translator. Kirkland appears to be able to communicate in binary while he is attached to the computer and given specific information or commands. We need to study this phenomenon now in case it's impossible to recreate."

Honda nodded and hurried in his shuffling way to the computer. He brushed his hair out of his face and squinted at the computer screen. "He says that he is unable to comply with the command to go left due to being attached to the computer and unable to access his body, Beilschmidt-san."

"Can he answer questions, then?"

Honda paused and began to type. "He says 'yes.'"

"Ask his name."

The keyboards clicked. "'B, F-P 94578111097, Kirkland, E. Arthur.'"

"Age."

"Nineteen years, forty-eight days, and approximately seven hours, or three hours and forty five minutes, thirty seven, eight, nine seconds. He seems unsure, and is continuously updating the number he gave for the seconds."

They continued for another thirty minutes, Ludwig feeding Honda questions which he entered as information and translated the response. They gradually began asking more complicated questions. Several recording devises had joined the already placed archival cameras. Caer Beilschmidt was contacted, and began to supply questions of his own.

"If one has a small outnumbered squadron of troops surrounded in a small basin, how would one respond?"

Kiku stuttered out the response, "'If airships are available, bomb. If it is possible to sabotage long range weaponry, do. Call for aid from the nearest unit, as in accordance with policy, unless a unit is meant for espionage, an additional unit should be no more than one darsect distance to provide quick aid. If an overwhelmingly successful rescue is unlikely, the outnumbered squadron is to act as bait for the second unit to pin any rebel forces. If other units are indisposed, the stranded squadron is to radio all necessary information to base if possible, then attach time bombs to their chests set for five minutes. All ammunition possible is to be fired at rebels indiscriminately or disposed of via explosives. Once the ammunition and supplies are disposed of they are to run into enemy lines and detonate their bombs in the thickest possible conditions.'"

Germania Beilschmidt, from within his screen, nodded. "Give him the specifics for the present battle on Moldovera. The coordinates are 423-29-148. The information is being relayed to you via electronic mail as I speak."

Honda nodded and once again began typing away. He recited the response—which took a whole minute to answer, longer than any of the previous lag times—taking ten times the time it took for Kirkland to create it.

It began with "Have the troops currently in the city of Glen Do release the M05 poison gas," and ended with total annihilation.

"Hold him in this state for the time being," Caer Germania said.

Then he was gone.

000

It was two hours after the initial question that news of total vicious victory on Moldovera.

Kirkland had been hooked into the machine for nearly five hours.

Kiku typed, "Your plan was a success," and the simple reply was an affirmative.

Ecstatic, buoyant, radiant and confident, they unhooked Kirkland from the computer, a crate of alcohol on the way to celebrate their newest, greatest accomplishment. They crowded around the terminal, cheering and jeering and ready to swarm. There was much laughing and back-patting as brain connection was severed and the wires were unhooked. They waited, no longer with baited breath or on the edges of their seat to see if they had successfully saved a life they'd thought unsavable, but instead they were mulling with energy and the joy of a job done better than ever hoped for. The happiest accident of all. A miracle. With each unplugged port cord, there was a whoop of cheers. When the final cord was taken from the port of Kirkland's left shoulder blade, Kirkland opened his eyes, opened his mouth, and screamed.

000

Francis awoke the day before. He was still confined to his bed. He initially hadn't been able to feel his legs at all and he was still unsure if that was an effect of the accident or the drugs. The head station mechanic had been terminated permanently, and good riddance. He deserved it for making Francis live off liquids for the coming months, forcing him to go into physical rehabilitation when he was supposed to be graduating, and giving him such a killer headache.

He hadn't heard any news of Arthur, and he hadn't given it much thought. Arthur was undoubtedly in one of the nearby rooms, also confined to a bed, or perhaps under heavier sedatives (given the Kirkland temper, especially when ill, it wasn't unlikely).

There was some part of his mind which considered that Arthur may have been more seriously injured, but it was not an especially persuasive though. It seemed more likely that Arthur had already been released and was simply being passive aggressive about visiting Francis in the hospital because he was upset about losing the drinking contest so badly. Or perhaps Arthur was frightened that Francis' family may show up mid visit. In fact, the more Francis thought about it, the more he wondered if Arthur was simply frightened of running into his younger sister, Marianne, who hadn't come around to visit him either.

Not that he was upset.

Francis was a calm, rational individual. His teachers had always told him it was a strong point of his. He could think through panic and pressure. He could claw into the archives of his mind and pull out a specific historic event to draw reference from in most any given situation. He knew the words to use when soldiers were frazzled beyond help and he knew how to give clear and concise directions, even to those in the deepest throws of panic. He knew how to turn a battle around in any given situation. He just couldn't plan ahead or admit that sometimes defeat was preferable to a pyrrhic victory.

This may have been connected to the reason why despite how often nurses came in, Francis still did not ask them to remove the clock.

23:30:24

23:30:25

23:30:26

He didn't know what he would do when the clock hit 24:50:00.

He wouldn't be hit by a train. He knew he wouldn't be hit by a train. He was in a hospital, in a bed, on a comfortable mattress and absolutely sober and nowhere near train tracks. He didn't know how it was possible that he remembered being hit.

(But he did. He thought he did. He was pretty sure. The tremor in his bones told him so.)

He was watching the clock, wondering not very distantly—not very consciously—why neither Arthur nor Marianne was here to distract him, when it came ripping down the hall.

A scream from—somewhere.

The western wing.

The rooms weren't soundproofed, in case patients cried for help, but in all his years of fencing injuries and vibrator accidents, Francis had never heard such a scream come through the halls. It was all the force of a newborn child and the pain and terror of a tortured dog. One who had fallen of a bridge. (_Put him down_, his father said, handing Francis a gun.) In all their years of rivalry and mutual torment, he had never heard Arthur scream that way.

Forgetting about the numbness in his legs, Francis ripped off his blankets and got to his feet. He fell down almost immediately. With hardly a pause, he crawled to a wheelchair beside the door and hoisted himself up into it with much less difficulty than he expected.

He sped through the hall as fast as his arms could steer him. The scream had silenced some seconds before, fading into short, pitiful squeals and intelligible shouts. Francis could keep his level head. It was his skill. He ignored the ringing in his ears and the pounding in his frontal lobe until he reached a large double door at the end of a hallway. He burst through without even attempting to announce his presence. A strange jolt of sensation jolted through his numbed legs.

It was, it was _certainly,_ Arthur crumpled on the floor with a wide circle of purple lab coasts around him.

But it couldn't have been. The Arthur Francis knew would have never crumpled or cried like an animal to be put out of its misery. Arthur's skin was a few hairs paler than the skin of this Arthur on the floor. Arthur's eyes didn't shine so brightly through the fingers frantically rubbing at his tears. Arthur didn't blubber or moan or whimper. Arthur didn't struggle to his feet and dash towards Francis, throw arms around him and shout, "God, Francis, what did I do? Tell me what—there were over three hundred thousand on Moldovera, and did I—"

But that was exactly what this Arthur did.

Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur's trembling shoulders and lay his head next to Arthur's sopping cheek.

"Shh," Francis said. "I can't help you if you don't shush."

Slowly, Arthur quieted somewhat. Enough that the doctors were able to pry Arthur off of Francis and the security guards were able to escort him safely out of the room to- to- to somewhere else. Hopefully somewhere good. Francis wasn't sure, he had been too distracted, to frazzled to hear anything outside of Arthur's heaving breathing and the humming beneath his skin. Now that Arthur was gone however, taken by the medical students—the best in the galaxy, at Dominus Acadamia. They would take good care of him—Francis was able to hear the head of the Academy speak over the screen.

"…wiping. He may be useful with keeping Kirkland calm should this become a repetitive situation."

"What?" Francis said. He turned to look at the screen where Caer Beilschmidt's torso-and-up was represented.

The headmaster's icy blue eyes focused on Francis, and he was reminded for a moment of how the Beilschmidts and his family used to feud. In that moment, wheelchair bound and helpless, he was glad those days were over. "Consider yourself fortunate to not be mindwiped because of what you've just seen. You may have just proven yourself valuable."

Francis was forcibly confided to his room, where the clock ticked 23:39:20, and the train was ever-coming.

000

Guards were brought to Francis' room a few days later. They opened the door and saluted. Francis returned the salute, though he was still unable to reliably stand. The doctors' visits had not been as frequent since his excursion in the wheelchair. Marianne had still yet to visit him.

The guards came and saluted, transferred Francis very gently from his bed to the wheelchair, and they wheeled him down the hall. They passed the large double doors, which were the last thing Francis recalled directionally from his last excursion outside his room. They wheeled him into an elevator and up to the roof, where a military lift was waiting. Francis was wheeled in and his chair was strapped and he strapped to his chair with great care and attention to his comfort, though not much paid to his consent. Despite the precautions, the flight was smooth and conducted entirely without giving Francis access to a view to confirm the location, and there were no clocks aboard to give Francis an idea of how much time had passed since takeoff. Thank god.

It had seemed like a short flight, and the center spire of the Dominus Acadamia's main science building was still in view, so the flight couldn't have been so far, but Francis didn't ask questions as he was wheeled out of the lift and into another building which he didn't recognize.

They took another elevator, and three doors down from the doors was a large square room cut in two by what appeared to be one-way glass. The outside was fashioned as an observation center similar to the ones Francis remembered from their interrogation classes, which Francis had excelled in but not been chosen to Focus in. The room was fashioned as a hospital room, with a white bed and walls, a holographic window, two sleek metal chairs and a clock on the far wall. It ticked along merrily, unaware of any distress it may have caused.

A conversation was already in progress. Arthur sat in one chair, his skin appearing torn in places, beneath which something shone when the overhead light hit it in a certain way. Across from him in the second chair was a man dressed in the golden uniform of an Acadamia professor or Military Leader.

"…therefore, in order to avoid over congesting your brain, you will be subjected to mindwipes at the end of each session. The greatest side effects we imagine would occur would be lethargy for a short period afterwards and some damage to your short term memory. Alternatively, not giving you the mind wipes may cause you severe stress, predispose you to several mental disorders which would usually be related to aging, as well as a potential to dethatch you emotionally from others. Do you understand why this decision has been made?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes, Sir," he said. He seemed no worse for wear than he had when Francis had last seen him sober before the accident, as they stepped out of—before they met at Bluno's. He looked like he had in class, his back straight and his eyes wide and earnest.

"And you consent unconditionally to using your new capabilities for the benefit of the Empire when called on?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Thank you, Kirkland."

The man in the golden uniform stood and saluted. Arthur stood and returned the salute. As the man in the golden suit left, Arthur shuffled back into his bed and curled up, slowly running his fingers over his arms and legs, fidgeting with the tatters of his skin and bringing his palms up to his eyes when his shoulders began to shake and his eyes grew wet and swollen.

"Bonnefoy is here, sir," the guard to Francis' left said. Francis tore his eyes away from the window Arthur was beyond to see the golden-uniformed man approaching. Salute. At ease. God, he wanted to go back to his dorm and sleep for a week.

"Have you been made aware of your situation, Bonnefoy?" the gold-uniformed man said.

"No, Sir," said Francis. He wasn't used to being seated—even by necessity—when speaking to professors or military leaders. His eyes flickered to the man's chest. There were rows upon rows of decorations. Francis finally managed to place him as one of the Generals who had somewhat retired from the war with the rebels in order to oversee the military forces for the area of the Academy. His name escaped Francis.

"Several days ago, you witnessed a top secret military experiment involving Kirkland. It was a rousing success with a few minor setbacks, such as the event which you witnessed, which was the result of a mental backup. A simple mindwipe is all that's necessary, but they are simply patches and cannot account for emotional distress outside of the Initiative which may affect the process. You skipped your exam in Troop Management and Care, did you not?"

_And history and strategy, _Francis thought. "Excessive mind wiping can permanently damage a brain, sir—" he blurted. Then. Quickly. "Sorry, Sir. I meant, yes, Sir, I did."

The General frowned at Francis, wrinkles creasing his face. Francis swallowed and tried to not waver. The guards beside him shifted uncomfortable. Finally, the General seemed to decide it hadn't been the greatest offense and simple continued to speak as if the break hadn't occurred. "You were also acquainted with Kirkland and got along with him positively prior to his accident."

"Yes, Sir."

"Kirkland has been promoted," the General said. "After physical therapy and graduating, he will be moved to Pompeii and set to work in a unique position. He will need a caregiver who can act as both an emotional and technical support capable of taking charge, informing authorities of situations, and calming him if necessary. You, coincidentally, have just set yourself up as the first candidate. If you refuse, you will be mindwiped to the time of your initial waking."

Francis took a breath and steadied his nerves. If he were standing, he was certain he would be getting close to lightheaded. "A question, Sir."

"Permission granted."

"What would my job be, more specifically?"

"This is an experimental position," was all the General said.

"And if I should wish to resign from that position?"

"It would be discouraged."

Francis took another breath.

"You have until tomorrow to decide. Until then, you will remain here."

"What about my family, Sir?"

"They should not be a concern in this matter. Communication will not be restricted, though the nature of your job will be strictly confidential. However, you are not permitted to contact anyone outside of this facility until you have given an answer."

Well, that was straight forward enough.

Francis looked back to the window which Arthur was through.

He was still curled on the bed. His pillow was beginning to darken. His shoulders still shook. In the lull between the General's words, if Francis listened closely, he could hear Arthur's quiet wails of, "_Oh, God, how am I supposed to explain to Mum, oh, hic, oh, God, fuck, hic._"

000

After two months of extensive surgery, additional medical treatment and physical therapy, Francis Bonnefoy of G. Versaille XIV and Arthur Kirkland of Britannic graduated after nine years at Dominus Acadamia, as the only two students in the school's history to graduate exempt from all of their exams.

It was a quiet affair. Their families and close friends were invited. Headmaster Caer Beilschmidt said a few words about perseverance in the face of difficulty, loyalty to the empire and duty to its citizens. He handed them the diplomas silently.

There was a small luncheon afterwards. Caer Kirkland got drunk and Lady Bonnefoy joined her, leaving their children to record the proceeding breaches of protocol. Marianne Bonnefoy gave her elder brother a photo album and a box of chocolates. The elder Kirkland brothers all pitched in to give Arthur an old sock, a dead black snake and a book on relationship advice.

The next day, Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy boarded the ship to Pompeii, Rome, Italia, the core planet of the Empire, where they slid, silently, out of the ranks of men.

000

_The 2__nd__ Moon of Prien, An Outlier—Joten_

They had warning. The first moon of Prien had been annihilated utterly. Meteors had rained down on the planet's surface and dust had clouded the skies of the second moon, Joten, for days. The dust would have likely lasted even longer, had the Empire not chosen the third day to attack.

Alfred and Matthew were half brothers—orphans— and had called Joten home for the few years they'd been stationed there. They'd woken three days before to look up into the sky and see their sister moon glow red. Then redder. Then it had finally broken up in front of their eyes.

The first meteorites had hit two hours later and wreaked havoc on Joten's capital city. What little of a capital building existed, in any case. Prien was an outlying planet, relatively far from the planet and space station cluster which made up the inner Empire.

In fact, very little lived on Joten except for the small settlements surrounding the city which made up Joten's capital, and a major infestation of rebels.

Joten, mostly an ice planet, had burned. Between the meteors and the relentless assault of the Angel Assault bomber ships causing moon-wide fog and firestorms, Joten had been swallowed in a matter of days.

They had been shoved onto the last evacuation ship which was able to leave the atmosphere. It was packed to the brim with what supplies were able to be salvaged. Crammed in on top of the packages of food and water containers were the last few survivors of Joten. They fled to the even-further-out dwarf planet of Uliratha, which was home to a larger and better hidden rebel base.

Off of the moon with the tiny population of one million, only seven hundred survived.

"We were helping people board the ships, and Al was getting the rations out of the storage," Matthew said, his voice a whisper, as the rebel nurse draped a blanket over his and Alfred's shoulders. "We didn't have time to get everyone out. We're supposed to have more time."

"Almost none of the ships got off the ground," Alfred added. His shivering was terrible, and he curled into Matthew's side. Had he not been scowling, he would have looked small and frightened, but it was all shock and anger which shook his frame. "It was fucked up."

The nurse nodded and put his hands on their shoulders. "You're safe here," he said. "It'll be all right for a while."

"No," said Matthew. "It's not safe anywhere."

They had learned long ago that there was nowhere completely safe. They had learned it through example by their parents and friends.

"Your mother was murdered by the Empire," a rebel general, Steve Hunter, said to Alfred hours later. Days later. It depended on the rotation time. It depended on the planet. It felt like a long time after the attack. A lifetime ago since the skies had spat out rocks and sleek ovular ships had hovered high above their heads. Steve Hunter turned to Matthew, "and your father."

"Yeah," said Alfred, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. His legs were crossed and propped up on an empty small crate. In the chair beside him, Matthew sat beside him, half curled in on himself, eyes sunken and mouth closed tightly. "We know."

"You both understand what they can do. But you're still here, even though you know the odds."

"'Course we are," said Alfred. "—We're not fucking cowards."

"This is what's right," said Matthew, leaning forward in his chair, his voice nearly a hiss. "There's nothing else to _do_."

General Hunter nodded slowly, his youthful face—despite an already naturally dark complexion— had been tanned and lined by the powerful rays of Uliratha's star. When he frowned, as he did then, his worry lines became apparent and his shoulders seemed to slacken. "Then no matter what, you would oppose the Empire?"

"No matter what," they said.

(Like their parents before them. And they could not forget what it was to look at the moon burning in the sky and know that what they were seeing was a whole world of life being exterminated. One couldn't see people on a map.)

"There is an opening," General Hunter said. From a file to his left on his makeshift desk of two-by-fours and cinderblocks, he pulled out several papers. "The Empire, as you know, prides themselves on their military families and they like keeping their officers… well cared for."

Alfred leaned forward, his hands dropping from behind his head to take the papers and look at them, leaning towards Matthew to share. His eyebrows furrowed. "Oh hell no."

Matthew snatched the papers from Alfred's hands to look at them more closely.

"The Empire hires whores. Exclusive whores. Rigorously background checked; very high class hookers. They can get access to the highest of high ranking officer's houses should they get lucky enough to climb high enough up in the ranks and catch someone important's eye. I don't like asking you to do this. But we need at least people totally loyal to the rebellion," said General Hunter.

"This is the stupidest plan I've heard in my life," said Alfred. "And Matt can't go anyway!"

"What?" said Matthew. "If anyone shouldn't go, it's you!"

"What are you talking about? At least I can handle my own. You'd just get—I don't know. Hurt! Really, really badly hurt!"

"You would get angry and blow your cover and immediately wind up dead!"

"Would not!"

"Would too!"

General Hunter let them bicker for a few more short moments before slamming a fist down on the table. The brothers both jumped back to attention, muttering quiet, "Sorry, sir,"s.

"This is a very dangerous mission," General Hunter said, "and very long-term. We can't guarantee when or if we would be able to extract you. We already have a pimp in place who is loyal to us, but it's the prostitutes would be in the greatest danger and able to gather the most information. You are well within your right to refuse, but insider information could be the turning point to this war."

Alfred looked at Matthew, and Matthew looked at Alfred.

"Would we be able to find a way to stop the Angel Initiative?" one of them asked.

"If you climb high enough in the ranks, yes, we believe the operators of the Angel Initiative would be available," said General Hunter.

"I'll do it," said Alfred.

"You're gonna kill yourself," said Matthew, "_I'll_ do it."

"You're a fucking twig, Matt."

"And you're an idiot. At least I'm smart."

"At least I didn't collapse after the first day of basic."

"Why don't you both go," said Hunter. "You can cover each other's backs, make sure neither of you get into trouble, and double your chances of obtaining new information."

Both brothers paused and stared at each other—not feeling comfortable staring at a general for too long—before muttering a quiet, "We'll think about it."

They were dismissed.

000

**wow i hope this one is easier to write out then some of my other stories have been.**

**Did you miss me, space cadets? I missed you! It's been forEVER since I wrote a space story! Did you all know that? Because the last space story I wrote was like, The Starman and that thing is old as heeell. I still love it very much though.**

**I'm going to try and squeeze in the more overlooked characters from Hetalia in this one though- Seychelles (Michelle) , Cuba (Micheal) (because they are siblings and no one can convince me otherwise) , Camroon (idk what his fanon name is) , Egypt etc. are all planned to at least make cameos. Let me know if anyone has a character in particular they don't see often who they would like to see make at least a brief appearance!**

**space space space space space**

**DEDICATED TO VOYAGER 1, WHO HAS LEFT THE SOLAR SYSTEM! AHH!**

******Inspired by Shachaai's post ( shachaai . tumblr post/39250393201/space-cyborg-idek-drama-au ) , introduced to me and co-plotted by somethinglikeagnome, that collab plot was taken by me and written out.  
**


	2. Sunshine in a Bag - Gorillaz

**Thank you to firelight3, chukaliteluvver, Froggiecool, alonesong, K-Ojousama and TacoMonster for reviewing!**

**WARNING: SUICIDE ATTEMPT. Mentions of violence. Some sexual stuff. Regulated Prostitution.**

They had been working as companions for three years and, help him, Alfred was jealous of how many compliments Matthew's hair got. He still wasn't entirely sure what their stylists had done to their hair just a few weeks before that first interview—sex—with the director of military companions on Italia. Whatever the stylists had done, it hadn't gone away over the last three years and Matthew's hair was just as bouncy, curled and silky as it had been when Alfred first noticed, having been distracted by a barber trying to shave his head. He couldn't have been distracted for more than thirty minutes, though, which made it all even more frustrating as _what the hell could they have done in thirty minutes?  
_  
Whatever, though. It wasn't as though Alfred cared _that _much whenever Matthew came back to their shared luxury dorm with semen in his hair, saying things like, _ugh, someone masturbated with my hair again._

Alfred didn't really want people to masturbate on his hair. He might have appreciated more hair pulling—and extremely embarrassing fact he had discovered about himself during training (sex) and which he now had to try hard to avoid, lest he lose too much of himself in the act.

Still.

He still wasn't quite used to Matthew's hair being given so much attention, even if it had been three years since they began their super-secret spy mission in the heart of the Empire. As prostitutes. It was a pretty easy job once he had the motions down, and most of their clientele were tolerable enough. They rarely got a serious sadist who wouldn't specifically choose one of the professional masochists, and they rarely got a masochist who wouldn't rather go to a professional sadist. They got momma-or-daddy kinkers, they gave blowjobs and rimjobs, they rode and they fucked, they begged or they shouted, they dressed up in costumes and crawled across the floors with dildos in their mouths or plugs in their asses. They fucked and sucked their way up the hierarchy. They got into the bedrooms of the highest levels of military command.

Despite all that, despite three years of undercover work, they had yet to find hide or hair of the Angel Initiative, and Alfred was losing so much patience that he was throwing a sulk-fest over people liking Matthew's somehow-altered hair better than his naturally unruly close crop.

"Dude, what the hell?" Matthew said, brushing out his gorgeous hair. "You're sulking so hard you're practically on the floor."

"I hate your hair and your stupid baby face," Alfred said. His cheekbones jutted out much more then Matthew's did. A trait from one of their fathers, most likely.

"You got all the attention when we were younger. Stop complaining. Besides, I didn't think you liked people touching your hair that much."

"It's not that I like it," Alfred said, rolling onto his stomach on his bed. He had previously been lying horizontally on it, his head hanging down off the edge, his bangs for once all going in the same direction. "I'm actually severely creeped out by how many people are going gaga over your hair. I am the brother and I am not amused at all by this. I came along so this stuff wouldn't happen!"

"You came along to stop me from doing our job."

"Exactly."

"Al. Shut up. You're still hungover from last night, aren't you?"

"Am not. If I were hungover, I wouldn't be talking at all right now, I would be on the floor clutching my head."

"Well, you must still be drunk. Or your immune system has finally given up," Matthew said, setting down his brush and taking up his clothes, dressing in the latest fashion their conspiratorial manager had procured for them.

It was funny, being a high-class whore for the Empire. It was almost like being a doll. They had no clothes or objects of their own aside from what their manager gave them. Fortunately, having a manager who was also a rebellion plant meant they were largely protected from the little details which plagued many of the wannabe-Empire-prostitutes: bugged rooms, employment scams, violent or exploitive managers, to managers who took advantage of their workers. For those trying to climb ranks already starting in the core of the Empire, becoming a military prostitute was very regulated and very safe. Those lower down in class and further out in the ring were at much more of a risk. For someone coming in from beyond the Empire's scope or from a planet mostly populated by rebels, their employment prospects were grim at best.

All in all, the potential for being tortured or killed for treason was much easier to deal with when they were also completely certain that their manager was on their side.

All they had to worry about was getting caught and finding information useful to the rebellion before the whole rebellion was wiped out.

The attacks which had destroyed Prien and Joten three years before—called the Angel Initiative, or the Angel Attacks, though no one seemed to be quite sure why, since there wasn't a single holy thing about them—had remained just as swift and violent over the years. There had been rumors some months ago that the utter destruction of Moldovera may have been the Angel Initiative's first strike.

A trial run, perhaps.

The thought of finding the monsters behind it made Alfred's stomach do all sorts of flip-flops.

"At least take some medicine or something to get yourself more together before the party tonight," Matthew said, buttoning up his outfit. "It's the big biennial one, remember?"

"Medicine makes me sleepy," Alfred said, running his hands through his hair.

"I'd rather have you sleepy than having you be mouthy, honestly." Matthew finished with his clothes and began putting on some gentle makeup while Alfred rolled on the bed, moaning. "Fiiine."

000

_At least he's sort of back to himself,_ Matthew thought as he and Alfred moved through the party. They were sticking close together, as they tended to, so that they could keep an eye on each other and any dark corners one of them may be slipped into.

They were mostly there for advertising. To kiss and to touch, but not to touch too much. They were at the party to introduce themselves to the Big Wigs. Hand out business cards. Whisper, 'call me,' in their ears.

The thing was, there wasn't a single person at the party who _wasn't_ a Big Wig. Alfred and Matthew had swiftly run out of physical cards and were now relying totally on people's ability to remember their names.

The building was one of the grandest in Pompeii—the ceiling was domed and painted with the fanciful, ancient sort of images of the sky. Blues, golds, purples, and pinks dotted at the edges. There were images of things, which were not animals, but fluffy, floating sorts of gaseous water masses which at times resembled animals. The masses and colors spun across the borders of the ceiling, changing and morphing. The colors of the ceiling gradually grew darker throughout the party, until the room was mainly lit by old, silver chandeliers. There were many dark corners behind pillars and columns. Many long, curved tables filled with multicolored drinks and sweet treats small enough to fit in a cup, flecked with shredded cocoa beans and ground cane.

Matthew would have to work to keep Alfred away from the miniature cocoa-and-coffee bean cakes. The frosting rose up. It was puffy, light, and tasting vaguely of some fruit which Matthew couldn't quite place—not that he had to struggle away from the snack bar as much as Alfred did, but Alfred had a bigger weakness for sweets than Matthew, especially for the cocoa and coffee beans, which only grew on certain planets. They were a delicacy reserved for the richest. Their first time tasting the treats was with some of their earlier customers who sometimes set bowls of the cocoa and ground cane out to impress others.

(Sometimes Matthew tried to imagine what it would have been like to have grown up within the brilliantly metallic, bejeweled, reverberating, milk-and-honey streets of Pompeii. He couldn't.)

He turned his attention back to the partygoers, sweeping away from the sweets table gracefully.

He recognized many of the faces about. Many of them were high level military leaders, but others were socialites. There were bankers with large sweeping coats and gladiators without a single visible scar on them. There were poets and playwrights, Academy teachers and a whole orchestral pit filled with musicians holding everything from traditional strings and woodwinds to standing by their turntables and sitting with their synths.

Matthew moved from one part of the room to the other, picking up Alfred from a heated makeout with the head of the province of Edelston as he went, passing another prostitute from Panera who moved in quickly to pick up the slack. They shuffled to the far corner of the room to try and catch their breath and recover from the bustling party crowd, half of which had begun to dance while the other half hovered around the snack table, watching with mild amusement and intoxication.

"How're you doing?" Matthew said.

"Well enough. Still kinda drowsy from the meds. You?"

"Pretty good. Haven't talked to very many people in a while. I've been mostly looking around."

"That's a whole lot of looking around," Alfred said, grinning. He stretched his arms up and twisted his waist, pretending to not notice when one or two eyes flickered towards him. "You sure you didn't get lost on the way to the bathroom or some—"

While they had been standing there, a server had approached them from behind with a tray of alcohol. Alfred lowered his arms, utterly unaware of the person not a foot away from him. In a single movement, he sent two of the glasses of alcohol flying off the plate and towards the pillar next to them.

There was an earsplitting whine and a loud, shouted swear from behind the pillar which sent Alfred, Matthew and the poor drink server spinning around to stare at the fourth individual hidden in the poor lighting behind the pillar.

There was a short man with unruly hair and bright green eyes which, now that Matthew was able to see him, seemed to glow in the dim light. It may have been a reflection, however. He was sparking wildly, as though someone had set off a firework on his chest. Still, his eyes seemed to cut through just as brightly as the sparks.

Someone screamed. Doors were opening. Matthew heard a small troop of guards enter the room, their heavy boots echoing around the chamber and announcing their approach. He shifted closer to Alfred, quickly wrapping an arm around him as Alfred clung to Matthew's wrist. They were just frightened prostitutes, staring at a startling scene.

It really was shocking. The man continued to curse, even as his chest continued to spark and the guards coming around them took his arms and began to escort him away. In the dimness of the chandeliers, the sparks were dazzlingly bright, leaving imprints on their eyelids and illuminated the multitude of glistening medals on the sparking man's chest.

Gently, the guards also took Matthew and Alfred by the arm and escorted them to the front steps where they stood beside each other silently awaiting their ride back to the apartment. The noises of the party resumed behind them. The warm Pompeii wind tousled their hair.

They were in the heart of the Empire, where few rebels ever dared to tread. Where the highest level military figures walked carefree in the streets and sampled cocoa and ground cane as though they were everyday commodities. Everyone who was anyone had been to the Academy at least briefly. Still, as they waited for their car to come, Alfred pressed up against Matthew as they had been taught to do. He was trembling. Matthew wrapped an arm around him. They bit their lips.

"Did you see his medals?" Matthew said, his voice no higher than a whisper.

"Oh my god, Mattie," Alfred hissed, his voice cracking just slightly. "I didn't know the ranks could _go _that high."

000

Francis sort of expected something to happen. It had been half a year. It was about time something happened.

Not that he wanted it to happen. He wanted things to happen about the same amount as he wanted a train to run him over.

"You broke your waterproofing," Francis said, his eyes flat and mouth feeling somewhat dead. "And you didn't tell anyone."

"I wasn't expecting someone to spill shit on me at a party," Arthur said. His hands were shaking. Occasionally there was a quiet crackle from inside Arthur's chest resulting in an involuntary twitch.

"These sorts of things aren't supposed to wait," Francis said, peeling back the last layers of Arthur's seared skin. It was a strange and rather disorienting experience to be pulling apart his best friend's chest, but Francis kept his eyes down, dull, and did it. He was wearing thin rubber gloves to protect himself from electrocution, searching through Arthur's chest cavity for damage to his internal organs.

It was funny how quickly his job description had grown from caretaker to emergency surgeon and mechanic.

"You have done a fantastic job of fucking yourself up," Francis said as he carefully wiped away any of the residue alcohol he could find. Arthur grumbled, but said nothing Francis could adequately make out. He responded anyway. "Yes. You should be sorry."

Three years had done a miraculous job of teaching Francis to understand Mumble Speak. And how to do minor overrides. And to repair shorted circuits. How to use those atrocious supercomputers, which had horrified him since childhood—they always reminded him of the combines on _Louie_, which could easily take off an arm or a leg—The last three years had, however, failed to improve his patience with Arthur.

Arthur grumbled again, a bit more quietly, and drooped his head with the faintest of a mechanical whirr which could have easily been mistaken for the occasional buzz of the climate control.

"All right, here's how it'll go," Francis said, removing his hands from Arthur's chest and straightening up. He looked Arthur in the eyes as best he could with Arthur not cooperating. "Hey. Look at me." Arthur didn't. "Look, I'm going to go get some temporary filler so you don't get electrocuted again, and then we'll get you a bath. It'll be nice and scalding. I'll even get you some soup. Once you're all cleaned up, I'll call in the mechanics and they'll fix you up. We've got another meeting with Consul Hellena tomorrow morning to discuss the Angel, okay?"

"I don't want to talk about that," Arthur muttered, just loud enough that Francis could make it out without guessing based on the tone of his grumblings.

"I don't much either, but it's our job now," Francis said. He stood and began to fidget with the rubber gloves, slowly working at pulling them off. "And you knew it would be."

"I know."

"So no more griping," Francis said, turning to go retrieve the promised waterproof wrapping.

"Francis."

Francis paused and turned back. "Yes?"

"You swear the Angel isn't actually my brain."

"Of course," Francis said. "Otherwise you'd remember the plans, wouldn't you?"

Arthur nodded. Shifted in his seat. Sighed. "Right… I'll go draw the bath while you get the wrap."

"All right."

"Take your time."

Francis turned and walked out of the room towards the first aid closet he kept fully stocked with wrenches, screws, skin cloning devices for extra grafts, sewing supplies, bandages, creams, painkillers, and various rubber products.

He pulled off his gloves and tossed them into the slot on the left wall of the closer, where all the supplies needing be replacement or cleaning went. As he shuffled through the supplies to the waterproof wraps on the back of the bottom shelf, he heard the water from the bathroom begin to run.

He took a few moments to shift around the waterproofer, measuring out and cutting the amount he estimated he would need for Arthur's temporary binding, and then a bit more, just in case he needed slack.

He stood and picked up a fresh, wonderfully soft towel on his way back to the bathroom. The door was closed. Arthur had probably finished stripping already. It wasn't as though they had lived together for almost twelve years now and seen each other naked multiple times in a variety of circumstances. Francis huffed as he shouldered the door open, beginning to set aside the towel and wrap as he said, "Arthur, are you always going to be a prude—"

He smelled burning plastic and skin. Screamed.

Arthur's body, heavy with mechanics, fizzed with electricity and steam as he sizzled in the water-filled tub. His hands spasmed. His chest where the skin and metal plating was open and where the damaged wires were was alight. Francis reached out, waterproofing still in his hands, and yanked Arthur out of the tub. The sparks subsided some but didn't stop; flames were still sputtering out of his chest.

Francis noticed the vague pain in his hands as though it were happening to someone far away. Instead, he bolted out to the bathroom sink and beat the emergency aid button under the counter. Somewhere, a siren went off.

He twisted on his ankle and dashed to the kitchen, grabbing the large bag of baking soda out of the main pantry. It was difficult to hold in his swelling hands, so he gathered it up in his arms and dashed back to the bathroom, ripping the bag open with his teeth and tossing puffs of baking soda into the still burning plate in Arthur's chest.

The fire extinguished. Francis fell to his knees, coughing. He pressed two fingers to Arthur's neck, feeling for a pulse. Searched with his eyes for a flicker of electronic beeping, signs Arthur hadn't short circuited entirely. It was then that the emergency responders poured in the front door.

There weren't any clocks in the apartment. Francis wasn't sure exactly how long it had taken them to arrive, but it couldn't have been more than a three minutes. He was jostled aside as the responders swarmed around Arthur, checking his lack-of-a-pulse and all those other things that Francis would have gotten around to if—

They wrapped Arthur in a clean sheet and slid him onto a stretcher, which Francis hadn't seen out in the hall. The responders spoke into headsets and shouted orders at each other, moving like a strange sort of amoeba through the bathroom. Some photographed evidence, others slid Arthur's body out of Francis' vision, and one of them bent down in front of Francis, grabbed his hands and shouted to the others, "We have more burns over here! Get him into the ambulance with the other."

"I'm fine," Francis said. His throat was sore from inhaling the baking soda.

The responder hustled Francis onto his feet regardless and steered him out the door and into the ambulance's spacious back area before Francis could even fully register what was happening.

He had only just worked past Arthur electrocuting himself, and was only just beginning to take in the terrible stabbing pain in his hands where the waterproofing had only partly protected him from the powerful electric current, and where the swelled patches of skin had burst or torn in his endeavors to minimize the damage.

They reached the hospital in—time. Eventually. Francis didn't look at the clock in the back of the ambulance. They were shuffled out and shuffled in, with Arthur being taken with hardly a glance at his ID. The doctors rushed Francis in right behind Arthur but abandoned him quickly when Francis once more insisted that he was fine. They had no time for uncooperative patients. Except Arthur. A stray nurse took it upon himself to properly fix Francis' hands before shock fully set in. He sat in a small checkup room for two hours after his basic handling. His pain was vastly improved and his nerves would heal in a matter of days, so great was their fine Empire's technology and medical prowess. All that was left to do was wait for Arthur to wake.

000

He was shuffled into Arthur's room two hours before the anesthesia was supposed to lift. Revival from a death-experience was a tricky business. It was simpler when half of a body was mechanical, but trickier when that mechanical life support system was shut off. The medical center had, however, gotten quite experienced at isolating and preserving Arthur's brain until full repairs could be made.

Anesthesia simply helped make sure the revival didn't end with the patient bolting upright, screaming or with silly ideas of a place after life.

Francis clicked through the wallwindow-decorations—a hologram of a forest covered an entire wall. It was replaced by a skyline at moonrise. Then, HD 69830's sky at night on the ceiling and two walls. Several more options flashed by until he finally found the wall image he was looking for. A 220 degree view of Brittanic from water-level, where the Stack Systems were easily visible, raising the man-made continents out of the planet's otherwise all-encompassing oceans. Hopefully it would give Arthur some comfort when he woke.

Hopefully.

Otherwise, Francis would be there with his mindwipe application form to be filled out and handed in within minutes of a problem. Excessive mindwiping tended to cause complications such as short term memory loss or a sort of creeping paranoia about the reality of one's existence. It was said by those without history degrees that on Earth-That-Was, that troublemakers like Socrates and Descartes suffered from excessive mindwiping, with Socrates being poisoned after a rigged trial and Descartes' corpse desecrated as a result of their attempts to convince the rest of the world that it was the _universe _which had gone mad, not _him._

Francis would admit, he rather liked the mad philosophes. He had a soft spot for them. Perhaps their eccentric ways made them appealing to him, but he knew very well that whatever eccentricies they had, those eccentricies were not caused by mindwipes. Francis knew mindwipes like the back of his hand, now. He had a whole stack of forms pre-signed by the head of the medical staff who oversaw Arthur each time he entered, specifically so he would no longer have to waste time actually applying for a wipe. He would merely submit the form at the door for processing and then proceed.

This was the third time Arthur had tried to kill himself. This was the third time Francis had helped excuse it as something else, bribing the doctors to stay silent and the records to be very gently, harmlessly altered. The doctors didn't care for the _why _of accidents as long as their medical achievements were on file.

So the bullet through Arthur's jaw last year was excused as part of a gun salute practice gone wrong. They had constructed a sort of wall around Arthur's brain to ensure further accidents did not was why the crushed neck from six months before was passed off as Arthur foolishly trying to lift weights without a proper spotter outside of a proper weight-lifting institution, and it was an accident when he dropped the 60lb barbell on his throat. His esophagus was replaced with a sturdier, similarly flexible tubular material and his spine gently reinforced with steel. The electrocution Francis planned to blame on himself— he would say that he hadn't realized Arthur's waterproofing was missing in one area and he hadn't stopped Arthur's attempt to bathe.

Hopefully, it would not be the third time Francis applied for a mindwipe for Arthur after such an incident, but he had the slip and the pen anyway. He was ready if it didn't appear as though Arthur was going to be helped by some other method.

And Francis waited.

He didn't want to administer a wipe without knowing Arthur's current mental state (when had he gotten so good at this?) so he sat, silently, flicking through the wall-window decorations to the Britannic image. He pointedly ignored the cumbersome bandages on his hands and the way the nurses were strapping Arthur down to his bed to prevent him from doing further damage to himself when he woke.

Even though it was already difficult to destroy a person whose skull had been largely replaced by adamite steel. It was dangerous and time consuming for the surgeons to fix Arthur's body every few months.

Sometimes, Francis wondered why they didn't just keep Arthur's brain in a jar or permanently hooked up to the Angel if they were tired of dealing with his antics. Francis would never say that aloud, though. He wouldn't want to give anyone ideas, oh no.

Sometimes Francis wondered if he had been more damaged in the accident than it appeared. Francis had never thought that way before—neither had Arthur. They had never had any reason to. The twisting sore inside their chests had only appeared with the Angel, and with the Angel it grew more and more painful.

There were days when Francis wanted to rip his own chest open, but he didn't. It wouldn't have mattered if he had, except to Arthur.

To an Empire with the Angel, Francis was disposable. To Arthur, he was something much more precious, and Francis had no way of knowing how much damage his death would do to his old rival.

He sat in Arthur's room, quietly watching the muted shifting waves on the wall break against the Stacks of Britannic.

000

Arthur woke slowly. The world was covered in a fine layer of cotton. Of dust. Of fine sand, which never fell into his eyes but which seemed to float, steady, across his vision.

The realization that he was alive washed over him like a chilled blanket being settled over his frame. His face was clammy and his whole chest and arms were numb and cold, as though his bones were made of icicles instead of metal.

He could feel his molars crunching and the tightness in his neck, but could not summon up the will to do anything about it for what felt like a very long time as he lay in bed, staring at the pictures on the ceiling. They looked like home.

He hadn't been home in years.

It was mostly that which made him turn his head. The very quiet, creeping want which slowly overwhelmed him—that he did not want to look at his home. His head twisted to his side. His molars still crunched and his neck was still as tense as a piano wire.

Francis was sitting beside the bed, a book in his lap.

Arthur waited for Francis to notice him. He was too damn tired to deal with the tangle of emotions which rose out of the simple presence of his best friend. There was an impulse—not quite a knee-jerk reaction—to scream at him. To sit up on the bed and lash out and bite his face off, screaming, "_Why? Why?_"

He was too tired for that. And his arms were tired. The idea of thrashing against his bindings felt trite and overused, and for a reason he couldn't quite place he thought, _it's not like it's worked before_, though he was quite certain this was the first time he'd woken strapped to a hospital bed.

There was another part of Arthur which wanted to reach out and curl into Francis' lap, or have Francis crawl into bed beside him and curl around him like a human blanket to escape the stifling cold literally surrounding his heart. Francis would do it if Arthur asked. He knew Francis would, because after the first year when Arthur had gone through that horrible week when he started tearing up even at references to the Angel, Francis had done anything if Arthur asked which seemed doable.

But his arms were strapped down and his mouth was so, so dry that he just couldn't bring himself to open his cracked lips.

Then, there was a part of him which was so fucking tired. All it wanted to do was go back to sleeping—which Arthur had done quite enough of—or cry.

His emotional gauntlet ran its course for less than a few seconds after seeing Francis, and, utterly outside of his conscious control, Arthur's brain chose for him.

He took a brief look at Francis and dissolved into tears.

Francis set down the book without marking his place and surged to Arthur's side, hand on Arthur's shoulder, nose almost touching Arthur's nose.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

_You're a fucknut,_ Arthur thought, but he couldn't muster the energy to say it aloud. He gnashed his teeth into the most savage expression he could with his half-numb face and hoped it sufficed. Francis didn't respond except to press the remote to tilt the top half of Arthur's bed so that Arthur was partly sitting up. Then, Francis gave him a glass of water.

It was strange how quickly his thoughts shifted to drinking as much as he could. His throat was so dry, and—and fuck, his hands were strapped to the bed. He drank as Francis pressed the glass to his lips, bearing the indignity if only just for something to sooth the pain in his throat. The clearest feeling in his body.

"The Senate doesn't know you're here. We told them you had an unfortunate accident with your waterproofing," Francis said, removing the cup from Arthur's lips. "It's been fixed. If you feel numb, it's because they're still working on fixing your nervous system. You should still be able to feel through your sensors, though."

As if to illustrate this, Francis took the time to reach down and pat Arthur's partly mechanized leg. There was a small, cold jolt of sensation, but little else.

"'Wasn't an accident," Arthur said, trying to remember how to separate his tongue from the back of his teeth. It was as though each part of his body was heavy, clammy, and swollen.

"I know that and you know that, but they don't have to," Francis said. "More water?"

With effort, Arthur shook his head. Francis set the cup down on the bedside table next to the book. Then, taking some tissues from the same table, he carefully leaned over to wipe the wetness of tears and spill from Arthur's face.

"Fuck off."

"Mmh."

"Fuck _off, _Francis, I don't want to deal with you."

"You would rather deal with me than being totally helpless, trust me."

"God, would you listen to me when I actually want you to for once?" he said as Francis tossed away the tissues. His hands were wrapped in what appeared to be thick white gauzy bandages. Arthur's train of thought derailed. "What happened to your hands?"

Francis raised an eyebrow and said, "I had to pull you out of the tub, imbecile."

Arthur's stomach—maybe not, though, his stomach was still flesh and numb—twisted. His throat constricted. "Sorry."

"What did you think would happen? I would just leave you there?"

"I just wanted—"

"—_I don't want to hear it_." Francis leaned in close once more, glaring. "As long as you don't ever try something like this again, I don't care all that much. But you are being a complete idiot right now and I don't like it one bit. This isn't like you. You know nothing will come out of this and it isn't helping anyone."

"I'm _slaughtering _people!"

"It was always our job to slaughter the rebels and you knew it even back when we were in the Academy," Francis said, hissing. "What happens now is you do the best you can with what you want while still surviving. They aren't going to decommission Angel just because you want them to."

Arthur's throat cracked again. "But that's why I've got to—"

"You don't' have to do anything. The Angel isn't your responsibility."

"It's my head! How the fuck is that not my—"

"It's not part of you."

"Oh my fucking god. Can we not have this argument right now? For once?"

Francis looked like he was about to argue. His mouth opened and his eyebrows were still furrowed. Then, he leaned back and took a deep breath. The color in his cheeks slowly left. "All right."

They sat together in horrible, uncomfortable silence as Arthur's tears slowly dried and Francis dabbed at his face with tissues, occasionally quietly asking or responding to less loaded questions.

"…you're sure the Senate doesn't know."

"Yes."

"So Mum doesn't know."

"She hasn't a clue. Only that you had an accident with your waterproofing."

Arthur shifted the way his neck was on the pillow. The images of Brittanic were still flickering across the walls. What he wouldn't give to be back in the saltwater oceans, racing boats with his brothers and shoving each other off of the Stacks. But going home had been rendered, not impossible, but incredibly uncomfortable after the accident. His mother— like all heads of the most important families of each planet—like all Caers—was a member of the intergalactic Senate, representing their planet to the Consuls who then advised Their Great Lord Romulus, Body of the Empire, who served as Emperor after the death of his brother Remus, Long Live His Immortal Soul. It would be impossible for the Empire to create something like _Arthur_ without his mother knowing.

Sometimes he wondered if she'd known as far back as his graduation.

"How do they not know if I'm on suicide watch?"

"The doctors know. They won't tell, but they still have you, written down as two different Arthurs, one electrocuted accidentally and one on suicide watch. Bribery is a wonderful skill passed down in my family for generations."

An awkward smile from Francis. It faded when Arthur didn't return it. Silence fell between them again for several minutes. They watched the waves on the wall shifting and breaking.

"So, now we have two options," Francis said. Arthur looked up. Francis was holding two fingers. He folded them down as he spoke.

"We could mindwipe you to forget this ever happened and put you back to a while before you tried to electrocute yourself, but with me more preventative. Otherwise, we don't mindwipe you. We wait and see how you do living with yourself for a while, talking things through and trying to figure out together how to stop this happening again. And the final call is mine—" Francis took a moment to wave what Arthur recognized as a mindwipe form. It was already signed, which struck Arthur as odd, but perhaps the doctors had advised Francis and given him the form as a way of pressuring him. That was an unpleasant thought. "—but since you seem reasonable for once, I'm asking your opinion. Please be flattered."

"I'm always flattered when you deign it appropriate to ask my opinion on what to do with my own body," Arthur said, scowling, his tone forced flat with difficulty. Francis was the only one who seemed to ask anymore.

"So?"

"You'll never get me near one of those fucking machines," Arthur said.

Francis quirked his eyebrows and smiled. "Of course not." He tore up the form and tossed it into the waste basket with the tissues. "Better?"

"Not really."

"Sorry."

"How long before they undo my restraints?"

Francis's smile flickered away. "Ah. Well. You see, they… tend to not like taking them off for quite some time, apparently… weeks, in some cases."

Arthur tried to sit up in shock, but the most he could do was arch his back enough too quickly and make his vision blur. He must have disrupted a circuit. "_Weeks?_ I'll go insane."

"I imagine when you're called for Angel again, they'll let you go and you won't be brought back," Francis said.

There was a short pause. Then, "Francis, I'm not sure you quite understand what it's like to be directly responsible for the deaths of several billion people across two galaxies, but that is the least reassuring thing you could have said. I'd rather be tied up for the rest of my life. I'd rather be _dead_."

"I'll stay with you," Francis said, reaching out to cover Arthur's hand with his own. "So if this lasts as long as you're hoping, you won't be bored at least."

Despite himself, Arthur formed a small smile. "I don't want to be stuck with you my whole life without being able to smack you over the head when you deserve it."

"Kinky."

"Fuck off."

Francis grinned, catlike, and stretched. "I love you too, mon cher."

"Fuck off with that weird language of yours too, creep. And—what will happen when visiting hours are over?"

Again, the grin fell away from Francis' face. "Will you be all right alone?"

Arthur thought he felt his heart sinking, but that was impossible. It was encased in metal and relatively immobile. "…give me the hospital rules."

Francis pulled a thin gray stick, no longer than a cellphone form his pocket and unfolded it until it was as it was supposed to be, a thin blue screen stretched through the air, still attached to the gray stick. It felt as solid and smooth as glass, though it was simply a projection. They connected to the intranet and began searching through the government's achieve of hospital policy. Francis scrolled the page obediently each time Arthur told him to, watching and apparently not understanding why Arthur was searching through the policy when they both knew quite well that guests were not permitted after visiting hours. It was one of the Empire's many strictly enforced rules. It kept everything nicely regulated and safe.

"All right," Arthur said. "I'm buying a whore."

Francis dropped his computer. The screen vanished with a whir.

"What?"

"A whore," Arthur said. "Guests are forbidden but exceptions can be given to business associates negotiating important transactions."

"Oh my God," Francis said, covering his mouth and trying to speak through the sudden pearls of laughter. "Did you just—"

Francis doubled over, clutching his stomach.

"Francis. Francis stop it right now. I swear, if I could move my arms right now I would be kicking your ass so hard," Arthur said, twisting against the bed. Francis lifted his head and rubbed his eyes.

"What kind of whore?" Francis asked, grinning so widely Arthur thought his face may split apart. "One good with oral and riding, I suppose. Or do you want to give oral to them? I doubt they could get between your legs enough to fuck you right now…"

"Who said I wanted any of that?"

"You requested a whore!" Francis said, cheerfully straightening up again and opening the computer, connecting back to the intranet and beginning to search through the database for an appropriate companion. "What about this one? He has nice eyes. Eight inches—ah. Well."

"Francis."

"Are we looking for a certain gender? They have a few different categories… that and hair, sizes, origins…"

"Francis."

"—or do you not have something in particular in mind. We can use a randomizer. What?"

Arthur sighed. "Uh… I'm… look let's just pick one. …A male. Blond."

Francis nodded and flicked through the appropriate tags until finding the correct list. He enlarged the screen and began flicking through applicants as Arthur continued to shake his head with each image.

"This one is cute," Francis said, pausing at the picture of a sandy haired boy with blue eyes and glasses.

"He looks like Peter in twenty years. No," Arthur said. Francis snorted and flicked away the image.

"Well, apparently he has a brother. _I _think we should order both and I get the cute one and you can have this one."

A new image flickered up through the DNA link. It was of a young man, also blond and with glasses, though his hair was longer and softer—greatly resembling Francis', the more Arthur squinted—and his eyes were a darker blue, or perhaps a gentle brown or hazel. He was a bit taller and perhaps bulkier than what Arthur wanted, certainly with more babyfat still on his cheeks, but he would do.

"Maybe the brother," Arthur said.

"Really?" said Francis.

"He's from your planet, apparently."

"What?" Francis turned back to the screen, made a face, and then huffed. "They always use the wrong name…"

"He looks a bit like you."

Francis turned his attention away from the computer screen, grinning at Arthur. "Will you miss me that much, Arthur?"

"I can't say I've ever missed you very much," Arthur said, turning his nose in the air. "But I will consider him despite his obvious flaw of appearing physically similar to you."

"You're a terrible human who says terrible things, Arthur. My heart is bleeding."

When Arthur cursed him again, Francis did him the honor of smacking himself with the book he had been reading when Arthur woke, and for a while, Arthur forgot.

After visiting hours had ended and the prostitute had come, Arthur lay in bed, silent, trying to focus on the warm body curling around him and the quiet pieces of okay-ness from Francis' attempts to distract him, instead of giving in to the crushing certainty that he would not be restrained in the hospital bed forever.

Soon, he would be a danger again.

000

"You didn't mindwipe him this time," Ludwig said, running a hand down Francis' bare back. Francis lay beside Ludwig, naked, his ankles tangled in the bed sheets and one arm slung across Ludwig's lap. He ran his tongue across each of his teeth, trying to be rid of the aftertaste of semen.

"I didn't. I'm hoping he will recover faster if he remembers what he trying to recover from."

"And you, who are so overprotective, left him alone?"

"Visiting hours had ended. We convinced the orderlies to let him have a whore to keep him company."

"A whore. Really."

Francis nodded. "I have as little an idea as you do. He miraculously does still have his couilles, though. If I were stuck in a hospital room, unable to move for a few days, I would want a good distraction as well."

Ludwig snorted, eyeing Francis' bandaged hands before taking them by the wrist and taking Francis' left index finger into his mouth. "Can you feel this?"

"No. They're disrupting the signals from my nerves until the damage is healed."

"A pity. You're better with your hands."

Francis snorted and pulled his numbed hands away. "I would have thought you would get off on the idea of me being injured."

"I'm a doctor, not a sadist," Ludwig said, rolling over to crouch on top of Francis, pushing him down into the bed, sliding his leg between Francis' hips.

"There's not that much of a difference." Francis arched against Ludwig's leg, rolling his hips against the taught muscle against his cock. He mewled. Indecent. Gorgeous. Submissive. His hair was a tangle over his face.

"If I were a sadist I'd be enjoying the panic you work yourself into over him," Ludwig said. Francis paused his hips, still breathing deeply but frowning. "I just mean that you are both going crazy over nothing."

"It isn't nothing," Francis said, not responding much when Ludwig nudged his crotch. "He's in a very bad place right now. You of all people should know that, Docteur."

Francis twisted and rolled away. Ludwig sat back, frowning as well.

"We changed his flesh, not his personality. He was already slotted to work as a strategist. This sort of reaction is beyond extreme. He's practically been upgraded. He shouldn't be causing as much of a fuss as he does."

Francis sighed fighting the urge to lean against Ludwig's arm and feel the warmth and muscle shifting and flexing against his back. He folded his hands.

"Listen," Francis said, rubbing his face, wiping away his cooling sweat. "When Arthur and I were in Strategy together back in school, I would always win more battles, but Arthur would win the wars. When we weren't doing purely theoretical strategies—when we fought against the simulator who mimicked all the dirty tricks the rebels used and civilians came into play—Arthur would lose everything, or only win by a thread. It wasn't that he was stupid, he was just merciful. He left people alive. It always, always came back to bite him before the endgame. And now that element is removed by Angel. Of course he's devastated. It's not gone when he's Arthur. He guilts."

"But you don't?" Ludwig asked, grasping Francis' thigh and slowly pulling Francis into his lap again "You don't feel bad enough about the rebel scum to try and kill him."

"Of course not," Francis said with a huff, falling back into the rhythm. Pushing his ill thoughts away. Settling into Ludwig's lap, twisting around so that they were chest to chest. He arched his back and left small kisses on Ludwig's jaw. "When—" a gasp, "—when I was young on _Louie_, my little sister and I were in the woods. She brought me an injured rabbit. We didn't know what to do, so—mh—we called our father, and he told us to beat it with a stone. Put it out of it's misery."

"And did you?" Ludwig's hands trailed down Francis's ass. Quite suddenly, his fingers, still slick from the previous round, pressed into Francis' hole.

Arching, Francis shouted. "—Yes!"

000

**(I hope that didn't escalate too quickly)**

**(Also this is the suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255**  
**Suicidio ayuda en Espanol : 1-888-628-9454**

Please don't hesitate to call those numbers if you need someone to talk to. Please, please, please.)

**Notes!**

**Philosophes is French for "philosopher," also possibly the first commonly used word for philosophers. Pronounced "fill-o-zwaff"**

**It was 'Gnome who brought the characterization of Arthur being suicidal to the table. I asked her advice on his awakening and… I hope I did it well. Because what I got from her explanation was that he wasn't depressed in the traditional sense, but so guilt wracked that he felt it was better to die and spare lives he would have otherwise been told to kill. I don't want it to be mistaken for depression, because this would be a gross misrepresentation of a serious mental illness as well as disregarding the various other documented reasons for suicide attempts, so I apologize if it bothered anyone.**

**In shachaai's original idea, Francis relates the experience of hearing Arthur scream in pain to a dog who had broken its leg when he was younger. Francis' father killed the dog to put it out of its misery. In this, obviously, the dog has become an injured rabbit who Francis kills himself. I understood the dog differently from her initial idea on my first read through but his is an intentional chance, and… I chose a rabbit because… uh… I was actually told to put a rabbit out of its misery with a hammer, once.**

**(Fun facts: Because I'm unsure about how reliable real cultivation would be in the empire, we're going to say that all the books are either electronic or made of repurposed trash waste.)**


	3. The Flames Begin - Paramore

**Thank you K-Ojousama, Froggiecool, TacoMonster, JasperSellene, The Other Problem, that one Guest anon, and zoewinter1 for leaving reviews! I'm just gonna put out there that zoewinter1 hit the review sweet spot and asked "I hope you update soon" as I was editing the final chapter like damn that doesn't happen often at all. Thank you to everyone else who favorited or followed as well!**

**Warnings for this chapter: Hospitals. Restraints. Regulated prostitution. Some sexual content.**

**I do not own Hetalia. Bam.**

Mona called Matthew into her small, ovular office a day or two after the biennial party. Requests for their services trickled in slowly. They received one every few days or so, but with both Alfred and Matthew of them sharing expenses and the rank of the people they were servicing, they could have each accepted one customer per week and still lived quite comfortably. For their real job, though—they accepted as many clients as they could handle.

Their manager, Mona was a pale, slender woman, originally from _Louie_, and a defector. She had her home planet's distinctive soft hair which began curling around her nape—apparently it was what Matthew's own hair was styled as. Mona's hair was long and blond, braided down and tied on one side with a bright red ribbon. She once told Matthew that on Louie, silk ribbons were a sign of status.

"Mine was a gift," she said. "But it represents the sort of woman I always wanted to be."

"A princess?" Alfred had vouched, grinning and head cocked to the side.

"A respected, reliable woman," Mona had replied. "What is a 'princess'?"

There wasn't much more she needed to do to become the archetype of a reliable, respectable woman, in Matthew's opinion. He walked into her office completely reassured that there were no bugs or spies. Her loyalty to the rebellion was unquestioned. Her ability to navigate the heart of the empire was invaluable. She had been proven over and over, every time Matthew or Alfred took a customer and came back alive and whole.

"You have a client," Mona said, her face serious and flat. Her red silk bow was spread and starched, but her lipstick was smeared just so, as though she had done it in a rush and hadn't the time to fix it. Her dress was magenta and pressed. Her glasses were square. Her office was plain, with two simple oil landscape paintings hanging on the gray walls, which but mimicked wood plank despite being, like most of the Empire, metal. "The highest up so far."

"Really?" Matthew said. Mona slid the manila folder across her organized desk towards him. He opened it and gazed down at the photograph of a green-eyed man in a red military uniform. He glanced down the page, skimming but not entirely taking it in until he noticed the list of medals and awards received. "Holy shit."

Mona nodded, weaving her fingers together in front of her. "He's a very important figure in the military. How, we're not entirely sure. Everything beyond his basic profile is classified."

Matthew flipped through all of the three pages within the folder. Indeed, all except the very first page were covered in 'classified' or 'redacted' sections.

"I talked to Eduard a few minutes ago about him. He is on every VIP list to every party in the Empire, but he only attends the odd one or two. Usually the biennial and the Emperor's birthday party, which are almost mandatory once you're at a certain rank. The last events we have reliable information about him are his midterms three and a half years ago at the Academy."

"Everything else since then is classified?"

"We didn't get an address." Mona continued as though she hadn't heard Matthew. "He sent a meeting point where you will be picked up by escorts and then taken to wherever it is he is staying right now."

Matthew set the papers down. "So, what am I supposed to assume?"

"I don't know," Mona said, "there aren't any records of his hiring a companion before, and we don't have the time to ask around to see if any of the managers remember sending someone to him. At this point, just be extremely alert. Do exactly what he wants, moreso than usual, unless you are _certain _there's something that would help you out. We don't know if he will ever invite us back."

"So do look around a bit?"

"If you find a good opportunity, yes," Mona said. For the first time, Matthew noticed her hands had at some point unwoven and turned to clenched fists on the desk's top. "But I also want you to be extremely careful."

"Of course," Matthew said, quickly standing and reaching over the desk to pull Mona into a hug. Her shoulders were immobile and her spine straight as a column. "I've got you looking after me. I trust you. Nothing could go wrong."

000

At first, Matthew assumed he would be taken to some kind of top secret Empire apartment in the center cluster of the highest of Pompeii's many skyscrapers, where every flat was a quarter mile wide and completely soundproofed from the other floors.

Instead, he was in a nearly-vacant hospital lobby, watching another man with _Louie_'s distinctive curling hair argue with a nurse about whether or not prostitutes constituted important business partners.

Matthew just stood back and watched. All of the heavily armed guards around him seemed to breathe a collective, exhausted sigh as they watched the nurse and the blond military man go at it—the military man's coat was heavily decorated, Matthew noticed, though it wasn't standard issue. He was pale, and the bright red and cold fastenings clashed against his skin and made him stand out extraordinarily against the cool colors of the hospital walls—and wondered how many of these guards would have traded this for a life with the rebellion. If they would have rather been standing in a rocky waste of a moon, searching through shrapnel craters, rather than pretending to stand at attention in this hospital, with its slate flooring and small boxes of brightly colored artificial flowers. Perhaps not many, but these guards might have considered it longer than the other residents of Pompeii. These soldiers were the ones who had grown up inside the Empire and worked their way up the ladder to prosperity.

If Matthew hadn't spent his childhood clinging to his mother and father, going from ship to ship and moon to moon, he might have done something like taking a career as a soldier as well. Alfred would have, certainly. But being born beyond the current boundary lines was too big a crime to atone for.

He jolted when the guards nudged him forward once more. The guard to his right muttered a helpful, "You're all clear, now," in his ear.

The elevator they took sped them directly to the 30th floor, the top of the hospital, where high risk patients were kept right next to the landing pad.

The hall was empty of patients except for a single occupied room near the center of the hall, with yet more guards posted outside. The blond military man leading their group swept by without a word while the guards halted Matthew outside the door.

Matthew wiped his sweating palms against his pants discretely. He could hear mumbling from within the hospital room, but was unable to make it out.

A minute or two later, the blond military man reappeared and headed straight for Matthew. Up close, he was undeniably handsome, but with dark circles under his eyes and a tightness to his jaw that Matthew hadn't noticed previously.

"He's in there. Call him Arthur. Do everything he says exactly, understand?" the blond military man said.

Matthew nodded. "Of course, sir."

He was escorted into the room.

The walls were electronic and turned on, covering more than half of the room in moving images of the rolling oceans of some planet Matthew wasn't able to recognize. Wide, shadowy constructs rose up out of the ocean. Compared to the size of the waves crashing against them, the constructs appeared massive. It took Matthew a moment to accept that there was no sound accompanying the images, and that they were certainly not really present in the room.

The door to the room snapped shut. Pulling himself away from his distraction and hoping he hadn't just given a bad first impression, Matthew scanned the room for 'Arthur.'

Matthew found Arthur strapped down to the hospital cot, the only other figure in the room, immobilized and scowling. His gown was more like an unattractive full body suit. His eyebrows were like furry bricks.

There must have been some sort of mistake.

But. He looked like the man in the file. Matthew tried to recall the photograph accompanying the biographical data—it must have been him.

But. Matthew's eyes darted over the restraints.

"Arthur, sir?" he said.

"Just Arthur," the man on the bed said. "You're the whore?"

"I am," Matthew said, not letting the word bother him. He had learned that words which didn't apply to him didn't hurt if he didn't apply them himself, even if others thought they should. He swayed his hips and strolled to the bedside, sinuous and curious.

"Up on the bed, then," Arthur said, apparently trying to shift and make himself comfortable despite the straps holding him in place. Careful to not crush any of his limbs, Matthew climbed up onto the bed and straddled Arthur's legs. Arthur shifted as much as he could below Matthew, and appeared to have become comfortable. Matthew leaned forward to kiss him.

Matthew wasn't entirely sure what Arthur shouted, but it left Matthew's ears ringing and he shuffled backwards as fast as he could.

Arthur was still shouting in a heavy accent. Scolding him? The door burst open and the blond military man had returned—the hospital rooms must not have been soundproofed like most apartments were—and Arthur's cursing became distracted.

"What the fuck is going on?" the blond military man in the door said.

"Nothing's going on! Get out, you bloody pig! I'm sick of your face again already!"

"Such pretty words," the man in the door said. "Now where's the blood? It sounded like someone had attacked what's left of your poor couilles."

Matthew recognized that word from the class he'd taken on _Louie_'s native slang. At least he had confirmed that Arthur had a handler from _Louie_, though he didn't appear to be a native himself. Not that they could really be called 'natives' if the Empire had taken Louie like they had taken Matthew's birth moon, but he didn't know enough of the Empire's history to say for sure. Instead, he just hunched down a little lower on the bed and tried to stay out of the way of the two men arguing over his head.

Finally, the shouting ceased and the door snapped shut once more. Matthew kept his head down, his heart pounding, his mind whirling to try and figure out what had caused the outburst.

"…my apologies," Arthur said after what felt like long minutes of silence. Arthur grumbled and cleared his throat. Matthew's head snapped up. "I should have been more precise about what I wanted you for."

"Yes?" Matthew said. Arthur paused for another few moments.

"I, ah… as you can see, I'm a bit… tied up at the moment, and it was going to a rather uncomfortable night, so I called you to ah. Well. Be held, I suppose. The skin contact is rather nice and very warm; I get cold easily you see, and blankets only help so much, so …"

The officer trailed off, mumbling quietly until finally he wasn't even mumbling anymore.

"A hug," Matthew said. "You called me in to give you a hug?"

The officer's face had turned as red as Mona's ribbon.

Trying hard to not sigh, crack a smile, or snigger, Matthew readjusted his position on Arthur's legs and leaned down to wrap his arms around the bound man beneath him. Arthur relaxed. At least, his shoulders relaxed and his breathing steadied, his face became less red, but half of his body stayed as tense as though he were part rock. His skin was cool, as though he had been resting in cold water for a long time. "Do you want my clothes off?"

"No," Arthur said, tucking his face into Matthew's shoulder. An unpleasant shudder ran up Matthew's spine. "Just lay there until I tell you to get up."

"Of course, sir," Matthew said.

Matthew waited all night to be told to get up.

000

After visiting hours had ended and the prostitute had come, Arthur lay in bed, silent, trying to focus on the warm body curling around him and the quiet pieces of okay-ness from Francis' attempts to distract him, instead of giving in to the crushing certainty that he would not be restrained in the hospital bed forever.

000

A ride bound for the proper apartment complex was waiting outside the hospital for Matthew the following morning before he even woke. The nurses had come to check on their patient multiple times during the night. After the checkups, barring two short bathroom breaks, Matthew returned immediately to carefully cuddling Arthur.

In the morning, the nurses returned again to feed his client. The blond man from the previous night was there with them, entering for the beginning of visiting hours. Matthew learned his name was Bonnefoy. Bonnefoy sent Matthew out of the hospital with reassurances that the proper fees had been successfully delivered to his manager, and Matthew was escorted to his home.

Alfred met him at their apartment's door, still messy with bed head and last night's makeup.

"So," Alfred said from across the glass table in the kitchen, sliding Matthew a plate of fruit still attached to the skin, sliced like a checkerboard. Mango. When did they make the kind of money to afford mango? They were only grown in certain designated greenhouses. How much money could they send to the rebellion if a pathway opened up? "How did your all-nighter go?"

"Weird as fuck," Matthew said, taking a careful bite out of the mango. It was incredibly sweet. He tried his best to stop melting from the inside out. There was nothing better after a long night of sleeping on an uncomfortable body than waking up to mango, he decided. "He was at a hospital, strapped down to the bed, and we didn't even fuck."

He ate the mango a bit more quickly, peeling the succulent inner fruit from the skin. It was a nearly complete skin. Round and sticky, and cleanly cut.

"What did he have you do? Dance or something?" Alfred said, reaching over to steal a bit of the mango. Matthew didn't stop him; he was busy wiping away stray juice.

"Nope. Nothing like that."

"What, then?"

"He asked me to get on top of him…"

"Uh-huh."

"Press myself against him…"

"Is this gonna be gross?"

"Wrap my arms around him…"

"Yeah?"

"And that's it."

Alfred paused with another bite of mango being halfway chewed. "That's it?"

"That's it," Matthew said, finishing one of the slices entirely, leaving the skin lying on the plate like a damp rag. "His keeper brought me into the hospital, argued me past the nurses, bent rules to keep me all night long, had guards posted outside the doors, paid exorbitant amounts, and I snuggled that dude all night long."

Alfred stared at him. He swallowed his piece of mango. Blinked and stared some more. "Is that really all?"

"That's literally everything. I kissed him and he threw a hissy fit."

Alfred took a deep breath and put both his arms on the table, leaning forward. "I think this is a big thing, Matt. I'm serious. We can draw a lot of major conclusions from event."

Matthew looked up, frowning. "We can?"

Alfred nodded, his face serious and grim. "Definitely. I think you've just handed me the most important information we have ever gathered during out time in the Empire."

Matthew leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed, his mind racing through what was just said and trying to find the connection that Alfred had.

"Mattie, what we have learned…" Alfred said. "…is that you give really good hugs."

Matthew threw the mango skin at Alfred's face.

000

"You've been requested again," Mona told Matthew as he came out of the shower, his hair heavy with water and his towel busy drying his shoulders instead of being wrapped around his waist. It was amazing what being a companion could do to one's confidence in their nudity.

"Who is it this time?" he asked, setting the towel aside and beginning to pull his undergarments on.

"The same as yesterday," Mona replied. "Mr. Kirkland."

Matthew paused with his underwear midway up his thighs. "Again?"

"You must have made quite the impression," Mona said. She readjusted her glasses and set the file down beside Matthew's clothes pile. "This is his file again if you need to look over it more."

"There's nothing interesting about him so far, aside from how weird he is. I was expecting the higher ups to be… well. I didn't expect any of them to be like him. I mean, they've strapped him to a bed. He hires whores to give hugs. If they're all like that, it'll be weird as all hell. I don't think I need to look at the file again."

Mona nodded, tried to hide her snort, and left him to dress.

000

Arthur was, once again, strapped to the bed when Matthew arrived in the hospital room. Once again, he lay on top of the officer, cuddling him all night.

It went on the same way for three more nights; Matthew arrived at the hospital escorted by guards, hugged the cold, bound body all night long, and was escorted out again in the morning.

After a week of it, Matthew was more than satisfied with the lack of new information.

"This is a waste of time," he said, storming into Mona's ovular office after his fifth consecutive night spent in the hospital. "He's been strapped to the hospital bed the whole time. He doesn't do anything. Just lies there. _I _just lie there, hugging him all night. We don't talk unless I'm reading him a book and there's nothing in the room for me to look through while he's asleep."

"Alfred has been no better off," Mona said, lifting her eyes from the papers on her desk. She had rings under her eyes and a blue button up that day. "None of his clients have yielded anything useful lately, either."

"But at least he can imagine that the next time something happens, it could be useful," Matthew said. "I just get to know for certain that it's useless. Arthur's probably retired from some obsolete secret mission or violent battle and that's how he got all those medals. Why do I have to keep seeing him?"

"You will see him until he asks for someone different. He requisitioned you for private use and the Empire approved it immediately; there's nothing I can do unless he releases you."

"That is so stupid."

"Just relax," Mona said. "Right now, your priority is maintaining your cover. He'll see you frequently over long periods of time. That's far more dangerous than sporadic meetings with half drunk officials. Just keep as close to your cover as possible and seem ecstatic to be making so much money for so little work. Alfred will take more customers on and make up for what we've lost with this."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," Matthew said, sliding into the chair in front of Mona's desk and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands.

"It's not my job to make you feel good," Mona said. Her voice dropped low. It almost helped sooth Matthew's frazzled nerves. "But I will get you both out of here safely with information to help the rebellion. This is a setback, certainly, but we will still succeed. I assure you of that."

Matthew took a deep breath. It rattled on the way down. He took his hands down from his face. "I'm sorry, Mona," he said. "I'm just really tired of this."

She smiled. "Don't worry about it. It's my job to keep your head cool. Don't you trust me?"

Matthew smiled weakly and nodded. "I trust you."

000

On the sixth day, they received word of an Angel Assault.

It was on a planet called Borion. The state of Sutrus. A large swathe of habitable land had been pelted with poisonous gas. The ground had been salted. The bodies of the dead were piled high as mountains, said the report. Empire and Rebel alike lay bloated and yellow from the fumes.

The height of mountains was relative, but Matthew imagined body upon uniformed body stacked up like dirty laundry, stretching from the ground up, up, up to the stars so high that the top of the pile couldn't have been visible. He imagined the muddy fields of Borion filled with the stray shoes of the soldiers whose feet got stuck. The shoes of those who had the strength to pull free, and had their boots pop off. How many had been lying in the mud, groping through the dirt, when the gas had come down? How many had realized they were in the midst of a slaughter? How many didn't realize they were dying before it was done with?

It was in the middle of these thoughts when the order came to go to his client.

Client in singular.

Just a few minutes before the Angel Assault report had arrived, Matthew had received the official notice by electronic mail that he had indeed been permanently written down as a personal whore, and there was nothing short of taking legal action to do about it. His ID card had changed. His image was removed from the companion catalogue.

Matthew set down the report, hidden in a plain folder only subtly marked in differences and slid down between the crevices of a cabinet—for physical paper left much less of a trail than electronics—and went, despairing, to his fate and climbed into the escort taxi waiting for him outside of the apartment building.

Dressed and made up, and halfway to his destination, his escort took a wrong turn.

"Are we supposed to be going this way?" Matthew asked after a moment, hoping that he allowed enough time to still appear like the bubble-headed doofus he and Alfred were supposed to be.

"Yes, Sir," the driver said, not taking her eyes off the road. "You're slotted to go to the inner city apartments. That's this direction."

"I thought I was supposed to go to the hospital."

"Those are not the directions I received," said the driver, and she left it at that. Matthew spent the rest of the ride quietly watching the scenery out the window and hoping someone hadn't made a grave mistake which would cause him to be late to an appointment. At this stage in his career, even a doomed career as a personal whore, lateness was unacceptable.

He fretted at the driver the whole way to the inner city apartments.

They were tall, imposing structures of stone and steel, the military apartments. There were granite gargoyles on the corners polished to a sheen, and rooftop fountains sent down a gentle dribble of clean drinking water—a monstrous waste of clean water, but it was vaporized by a heat shield which protected the streets from the wet, which supposedly put the water back into the atmosphere, but Matthew remained skeptical. He had never learned much science in the midst of the rebellion, but in his personal opinion, vaporizing water was no way to make it rain. He tried to remain composed as the driver set him down outside the wrong building, telling him to walk up to the 5th apartment at the very top of the 10 story building. He was escorted up the elevator by two guards, who rode with him all the way to the top floors, and knocked on the door there for him.

"Mr. Bonnefoy, the companion you sent for has arrived," the knocking guard in front of Matthew said. The other stood behind Matthew, leaning back, _probably checking out my butt_, Matthew thought, but it was quickly lost in the whirling thoughts from his unease.

The man who opened the door, Bonnefoy, was the same military man from _Louie_ who had met Matthew during each of his visits to the hospital. Matthew's shoulders slumped down, the tension draining out of them as he realized that at the very least, he had been taken to at least somewhat of the right place.

Bonnefoy led Matthew inside the apartment, which was spacious, clean, and color coordinated. At least one of the walls was a built in holographic screen and displayed a moving image of the same watery gray planets had always been present in the hospital room. The active display wall was the only wall not blocked by plush three plush chairs, a couch, stray pillows littering the floor, and a long, thin bookcase with a vase full of artificial flowers. The floor was wooden—a marvel so far into the heart of the Empire, but probably a comfort for one so far from their home as a citizen of _Louie_—and covered partly with a large woven red carpet covered in intricate designs. There was a glass bar near what appeared to be the doorway to the kitchen, and down a cream carpeted hall, two more rooms across from each other with their doors firmly closed.

Bonnefoy closed the door to the elevator hall behind them. The guards must have been standing watch outside the door, for there was no sound to indicate the elevator had opened again.

"He is in the back room," said Bonnefoy, taking Matthew's elbow and leading him down the hall. "You'll be staying longer this time since you arrived earlier. I will bring you both some dinner in a short while. For now, just do as he tells you."

Matthew nodded and said a soft, "Of course, sir," as Bonnefoy stepped away. A little confused at the sudden change in approach, Matthew slowly reached up to knock. Instead of being told to just go in or having Bonnefoy open it for him, the door opened from within.

Arthur stood there on the other side of the door, wrapped in a thick jacket and free from restraints for the first time since Matthew had ever known him.

"Ah, good, you're here," said Arthur. He shuffled backwards into the room to let Matthew in, his gait nothing like the military gait Bonnefoy still had traces of. He seemed to be having trouble moving and standing still. He leaned on

The door closed behind him again. Arthur's room was—not small, but certainly not as spacious as Matthew had imagined. It was larger than the hospital room, but most of the room was taken up by the large bed and multiple bookshelves lining the walls. There were stacks of books on the floor and the desk in the corner and on top of the filing cabinets. There were books on cooking and handcrafts, textbooks on strategy and bioengineering, a book of advertisements for robots and two travelogues, one on Louie's tourable farms and another on the Stacks of Brittanic. As Matthew glanced at the cover of the second travelogue—on the floor, spread open, its spine somewhat bent—he finally recognized the planet depicted on the wall of the hospital and the apartment's living room.

"Sorry about the mess," said Arthur. He was sitting on the bed, stripping off his jacket before slowly pulling his legs up and crawling along the bed. His movements were jerky and stiff. From spending so much time strapped to a bed, Matthew imagined. "Come up."

Matthew followed Arthur onto the bed, kicking off his shoes and laying next to Arthur. They climbed under the blankets and Matthew wrapped himself around Arthur, struggling to adjust to having the body beneath him be moving independently again. Arthur reached out to a small dial on the wall and twisted it until it read 4 in large, grenn letters. The bedsheets beneath them began to heat.

"Are you recovering then, sir?"

Arthur nodded, nose in Matthew's chest. His unruly hair itched Matthew's chin. "I initially brought you in for company. You're fortunate I've grown fond of you enough to bring you home."

"Thank you, sir," said Matthew. He smiled and tried to push down the learned instinct to give a quick kiss. His insides churned, anxious with the sudden possibility of new information.

There were so many files he could look through once Arthur fell asleep if Matthew could manage to slip out of his embrace in the night.

"This is so much better with my arms," Arthur mumbled into Matthew's chest, "Mrph."

"Have you been recovering well then, sir?"

"I was fine the whole time," said Arthur. "The doctors were being overprotective."

"Oh," said Matthew. "Why were you in, then?"

"Just a little accident."

"Mmh, I see," said Matthew, not seeing at all and still trying to figure out the part he was supposed to play. He pressed his cheek against Kirkland's forehead and ignored the breath on his collar bone. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," said Arthur.

"All right," said Matthew. He lay still, wondering if he was supposed to coddle Kirkland or not.

They lay there for some time, not speaking, until Bonnefoy reappeared with the dinner tray. There were two plates, both with a small game bird covered in sauce, lemons and slices of fruit. Beside the plates were two glasses and three glass bottles of various sizes.

"Pace yourself, for my sanity, okay?" said Bonnefoy, setting the tray on the bedside tables. "And don't make a mess of yourself in bed. I just changed the sheets the other day."

"Where the hell did you get this?" said Arthur, pointing at the game. Matthew was staring as well. Birds were difficult to raise in environments like Pompeii, especially in the area of Rome or the planet of Italia at all.

"It was a gift from Maman," said Francis, wiping his hands on his hips now that he was no longer holding the tray. "A congratulations for getting out of the hospital again."

Arthur scowled. "Tell your maman that she's a right git sometimes."

"I'll pass it along," said Francis. "Now really. Don't make a mess of the bed. I'll check in on you in a few hours. Remember that the walls are not soundproofed and I would like to get to sleep sometime soon."

With that, Bonnefoy turned and left before Arthur could even finish his shout of, "But we're not going to do that!" and Matthew was left alone with Arthur again.

Arthur sighed and passed Matthew the plate with more bird and sauce before taking his own, which had more fruit and vegetables. He passed a large cloth napkin as well, which Matthew lay over his lap and underneath the dish. Then he received his silverware, and his cup, which he set on a decorated coaster. Matthew watched as Arthur then turned to the bottles—the largest was filled with water, which he passed over to Matthew. The smallest was dark brown with a label, and Arthur set it aside. The third was alcoholic, and Arthur stared at it for a long while before looking back up at the door.

"Francis?" he called. He waited a moment, and then called a little louder. "Francis, I know the walls are not soundproofed and you can hear me. Francis."

A few moments later, Bonnefoy reappeared at the door, leaning on the frame. "What is it?"

Arthur cringed just a bit. "Can I have another?"

Bonnefoy raised his eyebrow. "How many bottles do you think you can handle, exactly?"

"No, not that. I meant. A different one. I don't know how man we have, I just… this one really doesn't seem appetizing right now."

"It's the best for this sort of dish," said Bonnefoy.

"I'm sure it is," said Arthur. A few long moments passed before Bonnefoy again walked over to the bedside and took the bottle from Arthur.

"Only because your legs are still twigs," Bonnefoy said with a sigh which implied he would have given Arthur a different alcohol, shaky-legged or not, but he might have made Arthur walk for it. "You aren't getting my bourbon."

"I just want something that will settle easier."

"I'll find you something," said Bonnefoy. Then he left. He returned again with two more bottles, smaller than the first. Arthur chose one and Bonnefoy left with the second and did not return again.

Arthur poured his alcohol and drank.

Matthew waited for Arthur to take the first bite of food. He planned to eat in relative silence, but realized a line of conversation had been presented the moment he put the first cut of chicken in his mouth. An unfortunate trait he shared with his half-brother—there were times when his mouth moved faster than his brain.

"Owhmigod, thisis good," said Matthew midway through the bite. A moment too late, he covered his mouth and turned bright red at the slip. A bubble of red sauce escaped his mouth. Beside him, Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"You aren't the one who's had to eat hospital food for the last few days," said Arthur. He plucked up a piece of the fruit and popped it into his mouth like a candy. He swallowed again before resuming speaking. "First class hospital my arse, their food is still atrocious. But yes, Francis could break a heart with his cooking. Don't tell him I said that, he'll be entirely too smug."

"I didn't realize military men were taught to cook," said Matthew, wiping the sauce away quickly and cuddling up to Arthur once more. His eyelashes fluttered on instinct. Arthur didn't seem to notice, being too preoccupied with clearing his throat.

"Ah, yes, well. His mother was determined the Academy wouldn't train all the hick out of him."

"'Hick'?" said Matthew.

"Yes," said Arthur. "I'm sure you've heard it often enough as well?" Arthur set down his fork long enough to touch Matthew's hair. Matthew nearly flinched away, not because he wasn't used to his hair being touched by clients by that point, but because—well—Arthur had never done it. He was so used to the silent Arthur strapped down to the bed; to be upright sitting next to him, eating and talking, was like meeting an entirely new client all over again when he had been expecting someone old and used. It took him entirely too long to remember he and Bonnefoy were supposed to be Louians, home to the same remote core planet. "After our third year together he had mostly put a stop to it. Roasted one too many of the Arielites in class. The ones from Ariel were usually the worst, anyway. There were a few others. But I suppose a rivalry is somewhat natural between planets that are so opposite…"

"You've been with Mr. Bonnefoy for a long time, then," said Matthew. Arthur nodded and swallowed another bite.

"We have," said Arthur. "You have a confidentiality policy, don't you?"

"Of course, sir," said Matthew. "While the Companion's Industry has no control over the taps and the like in electronics, if anything happens in the bedroom and becomes public, you can be certain it was not us. We take rule-breakers _very_ seriously."

The bedroom also consisted of the rooms shared between Companions and their managers. Not for the first time, Matthew was silently thankful he was able to trust Mona.

Arthur nodded and remained silent.

"We signed the confidentiality papers already, Sir," Matthew said. "When you hired me."

"I know. Francis signed them for me. I couldn't move my arms." Arthur chuckled from somewhere deep in his gut. Matthew found the sound not particularly humorous, but he nibbled respectfully on his meal while Arthur spoke, slowly falling back into the groove of Companion. "It's just, we were promised such prestige when we graduated. We used to say how we would compare how many people groveled at our feet. Nowadays, I don't think I could get anyone besides Francis to listen to me for more than a few minutes, even on something as trivial as not wanting to drink an alcohol."

"I see." Matthew cooed, setting his silverware down and moving to rub Arthur's back comfortingly.

Instantly, Arthur twisted and slapped Matthew's hand away.

"Ow!"

"_Don't._"

Matthew stilled

Arthur stilled. He glared at Matthew. The dinner plates fell partway off their laps.

For a long few seconds, Arthur glared while Matthew cringed, wondering what he had done this time.

Then, "What the fuck is going on?"

Bonnefoy was once again in the doorframe.

"Nothing's wrong," said Arthur, slowly lowering his shoulders. "My back pain acting up. That's all."

"I'm sorry if I caused you pain, Sir," Matthew said immediately. "I should have been more careful. Especially since you were just out of the hospital. Please excuse my foolishness."

"It's fine, just don't touch my back again without my permission," said Arthur. He turned to Bonnefoy. "We have it under control."

Bonnefoy frowned but nodded. "Try to keep it that way for a little while longer. I'm trying to clean up the kitchen."

"I'm sorry, Sir," said Matthew, not sure which man he should address his words to. "It won't happen again."

Bonnefoy was already leaving.

Matthew lay back against the headboard once more. He quietly continued to eat his chicken and listen to Arthur tell stories about Bonnefoy being an 'overprotective ninny,' while the creeping realization came that Matthew would not be able to safely look through the papers while Bonnefoy was in the house.

000

Francis' mother had taught him to began all his negotiations by asking himself certain questions. Most of those questions boiled down some combination of two lists:

Relationship? Content? Pattern?

and

Head? Heart? Gut? Groin?

With Ludwig, it was frequently a Groin negotiation.

"Ludwig?" Francis said, speaking into the voice transmitter of the call. He had enabled the video/speaker function, though neither he nor Ludwig were in actual view of the cam. "Could you do me a favor?"

"It depends on the favor," Ludwig said. He was off-camera cleaning his office as they spoke, much like Francis was tidying up the kitchen. It was one of the privileges of being a high-access military member and Academia graduate. The privacy to clean your own home. Francis loaded all the dishes into the washer and ran his finger around the edge of the marble counter. _Only my hands touch here._ It was quiet thought.

"I want portable cameras," said Francis. "Please?"

Ludwig's hulking form shuffled into the display. Francis watched him through his periphery, but did not join him visibly on the cam. "Why would you want those? We already have the built in ones in the computers."

"I want some offline cameras," said Francis, finishing placing the last of the dirty dishes in the washer. He closed the washer door and heard the activation click and the water rushing in. "Disconnected from the Empire's mainframe, you know?"

Out of his periphery, Francis saw Ludwig stiffen at the thought of such treason. Such a cockup. Francis quietly cleared his voice and changed his register, carefully schooling his face and ruffling his hair into dishevelment.

"I don't mean to do anything _bad_, Ludwig," Francis said, unbuttoning his shirt just a little further before sliding into the view of the cam. Ludwig stiffened once more. "I just, well. You know of my little _problem._"

He slumped, bent his knees, lidded his eyes.

"I'd love to see myself with you, though. I just don't want to mess up you and Feliciano. Comprendez-vous?

Ludwig coughed and straightened his tie. "Bonnefoy, now is not the time."

"Mh. Is your camera recording?"

Ludwig shook his head.

"Then why isn't this the time?" said Francis.

"I'm cleaning," said Ludwig. "I'm busy. I cannot afford to be distracted with you right now."

"Will you get me the cameras, though?" said Francis. He ran a hand down his front and massaged his groin through his pants. "I promise, I'll send you copies if you want to have me whenever you're _not_ busy. You can add them to that pornography collection you stole from Honda."

Ludwig's face was a lovely shade of Embarassed. His eyebrows were creased in his moral struggle. His cheeks puffed out. It was wonderful to be responsible for such internal conflict.

"I did not steal anything from Honda."

"I know," Francis said. "I was joking. I'm sorry I upset you. I'll make it up to you if you let me." He smiled. All teeth. A little tongue. Feliciano was sweet and had never had sex with Ludwig, despite their long courtship. That was Feliciano's failure: leaving Ludwig vulnerable to promises of bodily fulfillment from others. Great Lord Romulus' grandson or not, the boy had to learn to rely on something other than reputation eventually, even if Ludwig _had_ apparently gone to lengths to recieve their Great Lord's consent to date his grandson.

"It's fine," said Ludwig, sighing and squeezing his eyes closed. He rubbed his face.

"You look tired," Francis said, his voice low and soft. "Have you been taking care of yourself?"

"Of course I have," said Ludwig.

"You haven't been overworking again, have you?"

"Francis, that is absolutely none of your concern," said Ludwig.

Francis crossed his arms and frowned—grimaced—pouted until Ludwig fell silent. "I'm going to come over to your house this coming weekend."

Ludwig sighed. He would wrinkle even before Francis did. "Feliciano is staying with me this month. He insisted."

"Does he sleep in your bed?" said Francis.

"No," said Ludwig. "Of course not. That would be indecent."

"Then I will come over late," said Francis.

"Wouldn't a hotel—"

Francis's stare cut him off. "Ludwig. Dear. Please. The receptionist wouldn't even have to be offered money to report that we'd stayed in the same hotel while your Feliciano was home alone. He sleeps like the dead. You need to stop worrying. I will come over around Twenty-three hundred. D'accord?"

Ludwig grumbled. Shifted from foot to foot. His cheeks had still not lost their blush. "Shall I pick you up from the train station?"

"I won't be on the train. Don't worry. I'll call ahead of time to make sure Feliciano is asleep before I knock." He paused long enough to blow a kiss at the cam. "I expect my cameras to be ready for me when I get there."

"Francis, no, I—" Ludwig began when there was a loud, nasal—

"_Ludovico!_"

—from just beyond the cam's line of sight.

"Ah," said Francis. "That's why right now is a bad time."

Without a word, without giving Ludwig a chance to find words, Francis flicked off the cam and the attached screen. The image of Ludwig's startled face lingered for a few moments more before the screen gently faded to its neutral gray. Francis leaned back against the counter and sighed.

He buttoned up his shirt.

He fixed his hair.

He washed his face and his hands.

There were no clocks for him to look for as he shuffled out to the living room to sit in his favorite plush chair facing Arthur's door. Francis sat.

He waited

**A/N**

**-Months, weekdays and hours in the Empire are all standardized for convenience's sake. For example, Francis' home planet, G Versaille XIV, has a day of 31 hours with 17 of those hours are in light. Arthur's home planet, Brittanic, does not revolve, so it has eternal days with light on one side, but the rotation time around their star is relatively short; 12 hours I think maybe. Both of their days are our standard 24 hour days, with 12 months in a year, and a year consisting of 365 days, to keep things simple within the Empire. So when they talk about the time here they are talking about Standard Time while if they were talking about their ACTUAL length of days they would be talking about Scientific Time.**

**-"Ludovico" is replacing Italy's affectionate "Doitsu" as a nickname. The diminutive is "Vico" . A related name is "Luigi" (through "Louis," which has the Germanic root, "Clovis" ) and that is why we can actually legitimately have both Feli and Lovi as well as Lud and Gil, "Mario" and "Luigi." Don't disappoint me now, fandom.**

**- I was hungry most of the time while writing this. Mangos mangos mangos mangos. I'm a little worried about how much of me shows through Francis' history. Hick.**

**-Please note that when Francis starts talking about how Feli "failed to sexually fulfill Ludwig and therefore left Lud open to sexual advances from others," Francis is being a dickhead and these are not the author's opinions. The author is asexual.**

**-Francis' favorite word is 'couilles.' I want to have him saying it at least once in every chapter.**


End file.
